


Pertinacia et Spes

by Cott



Category: Layton Kyouju Series | Professor Layton Series
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Desmond Never Turns Evil, Desmond Sycamore is a Precious Bun, Gen, Nobility, Non-Graphic Violence, Original Character Death(s), Spoilers for the Movie and LS/MM/AL
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-16
Updated: 2018-01-31
Packaged: 2018-11-15 00:45:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 52,840
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11219709
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cott/pseuds/Cott
Summary: Desmond Sycamore manages to protect his wife and daughter when Targent agents storm their house. It changes everything.Title is Latin for "Perseverance and Hope".AU starting from before the prequel trilogy.Kudos and Comments are much appreciated!Currently on hiatus until November of 2018 due to CSAT. (Similar to SAT, Abitur, GED or A-levels depending on country)





	1. Found but Lost

**Author's Note:**

> An AU where Desmond actually succeeds in keeping his wife and daughter safe. A story in which there are altercations of the three games Last Specter, Miracle Mask, Azran Legacy, and the movie Eternal Diva.  
> Descole does not exist as an evil persona.  
> Exploration of the English nobility, may be inaccurate as the writer is NOT British.  
> All mentioned characters and locations are fictional.

“Love, wake up.”

Desmond groaned and ran a hand over his face. He’d stayed up the night before going over his research papers and was getting some much needed sleep. However, his wife’s worried tone roused him from the zombie-like state he was in.

“I heard the bell ring. Isn’t it early for visits?”

The archaeology professor checked the bedside clock. It was five in the morning. The numbers properly woke him up, and the man wasted no time haphazardly throwing on his suit and tying his tumbling hair in a ponytail. Desmond ran to his study, gathered his research on the Azran Civilization, stuffed them in a briefcase and returned to the master bedroom. Celeste was already at the stairs in her nightclothes with their four-year-old daughter in her arms. As Desmond gave the case to her, their hands met for a split second.

“You know where to go. Don’t come out unless I come for you, dearest.”

“But—what about you?” Celeste’s blue eyes glittered with fear.

“I’ll survive.” The insistent doorbell stopped and was replaced with knocking, and Desmond knew his time was up. After ushering his precious family down the stairs and into the safety vault underground, he picked up his glasses and a pistol, then padded over to the front door. The instance the familiar dark blue uniform clogged up his spyglass, his suspicions were confirmed.

“I am not opening my front door to some Targent scoundrels!” Desmond hoped against all hope that the men would just give up; that they would go away and leave his innocent family alone. He regretted pouring all his energy in his researches. If he had kept a low profile and had been more cautious, maybe this whole debacle wouldn’t have happened. The door creaked ominously and Desmond tightened his grip on the gun.

With a loud bang, the front door flew open. Desmond kept his gun trained on the first pair of Targent thugs as they tried to come into the house.

“Take one more step, and I won’t be responsible for my actions.” He warned them. Just then, somebody tutted and approached him. This redhead wore a different, dark-green suit: he was clearly the leader of the group.

“You would never do something so drastic, Professor Sycamore. It is not in your nature to do so. Now, why don’t we talk this over like gentlemen over a cup of tea?”

“As if breaking and entering not to mention threatening is what a proper gentleman would do,” scoffed Desmond, but he let the green-suited man in his house. After all, there were who-knows-how-many Targent men out there, and he was the only person standing between his family and work. He was acutely aware of the guns trained on his back as he led the man into his home.

“So, professor,” drawled the redhead as they sat down in the living room, “I assume you know why we are here, judging from your…rather modest greeting?”

Desmond tightly gripped the armrest of his seat. “As I have said numerous times before, the answer is still no. There is nothing Targent can do to make me comply!”

“Oh, isn’t there? You know, working with us has a greater benefit than what you could ever imagine. You’ll be able to research to your heart’s content, and your family will receive the best care that we can provide. Targent is a big organization, sir, and we have an abundance of assets to do so. You do value your family, don’t you, professor?”

“They will be perfectly fine if your blasted organization leaves us alone.”

“Are you sure? This really is an once-in-a-lifetime chance.”

Desmond’s eyes flashed. “I am absolutely certain that I will never join the likes of you.”

“Well then, you leave us no choice.” The man stood up and signalled to his cronies. “Bring them down!”

Desmond immediately understood the implications soon after the thugs spread out in his beloved home. Panicking, he made a move to stand and was met with the business end of a revolver point-blank between his eyes.

“I’d stay where you are, professor, unless you want to join your family behind gunpoint,” the man smirked. The professor hid his panic and let out a derisive laugh, replying that he didn’t care, he would follow his family anywhere, but stayed in his seat. They wouldn’t be able to find his wife and daughter anyway. He could hear Targent men overturning every nook and cranny of his house and he was helpless to stop them. Finally, after what seemed like eternity, he could hear the Targent men returning.

“They’re nowhere, boss! We can’t find them anywhere,” shouted a gruff voice. The revolver held to Desmond’s head jerked and returned to the man’s belt. Desmond let a small smile tug at the side of his mouth. They would never, never threaten his dear family. As soon as that thought occurred, he was bodily lifted and slammed to the wall. A dagger was held to his throat as the redhead looked straight into his face with a maniac glint in his pale brown eyes.

“You’ve hidden them,” he breathed, “You knew we were coming for you and hid them.” There was no question in the words. Desmond presented him with a sarcastic grin in response. Snarling, the man dropped the blade and wrapped his hand around the professor’s thin neck. He kept his grip tight until his captive ceased his useless scrabbles at the grasp and was nearly unconscious from lack of oxygen. Only then did he set off himself in search of anything he could use as leverage against the downed professor.

Desmond lay where he had been throttled, trying to regain his control of breath. He was still too disoriented to stand up, much less find a way to escape. When he finally recovered a sufficient amount of strength, he heard his assailant trumping around upstairs, clearly frustrated. A loud “There MUST be something around here!” pierced the air, and finally the green suited man returned with some of his thugs trailing behind. He was visibly fuming. Desmond was dragged to his feet, then once more pinned to the wall by the man.

“Nothing! Even your research papers are gone. Where have you hidden them?”

“You are severely deluded if you think I will let you lay a finger on them,” hissed the professor. The man laughed. Now that he had a clear view of the redhead’s face, Desmond couldn’t help but shudder. A long gash decorated his left face, and the insane gleam in his eyes was truly chilling to look at.

“Well, if you won’t come with us, I’ll have to make you understand the penalties.”

Desmond started on a biting remark, but he was soon silenced by a knee planted in his stomach. He doubled over, gasping for breath, and the Targent men grabbed his arms, tying them together. He was forced to his knees.

“Simple torture? Why, Targent must have a fair shortage of intelligent men.” The professor managed to keep a smart mouth, but a sharp blow to his head effectively shut him up once more. More beating followed the initial punch. Amidst the continuing pain, Desmond felt every fist, every foot that connected with his body, and it hurt so much that he was almost certain he was done for. His glasses lay shattered somewhere. Then, suddenly, the punches stopped. Twitching a bit, Desmond looked up and met the redhead’s gaze. If anything, the man looked sadistically happy as he held the Professor’s arm in a vicelike grip. A quick jerk of the redhead’s hand elicited the sound of bone breaking and an agonized scream from Desmond.

“You may have saved your family, Professor,” he crooned, “But if you break, all will be for naught, wouldn’t it? We’ll see how much it takes for you to crack open like a crab’s shell.”

The mindless torment continued until Desmond could no longer voice his suffering; he had heard at least four snapping sounds of bones breaking, had a concussion from where they bashed it with a particularly meaty fist and his left arm was no longer usable. Any means of self-defence had long been discarded. Blood dripped from his nose to the floor accompanied by some from his mouth; it seemed that some of his internal organs decided to reorganize themselves. He’d fainted and forcefully brought back by cold water several times. Keeping track of the time was almost impossible save for the light filtering through the blinders, indicating that it was at least well in the afternoon.

“Well, Professor, it seems that our time here is up!” His main tormentor cheerfully declared while casually wiping a bloodied knife on Desmond’s shirt. The clothes were already quite ruined with his own blood that another spot didn’t matter. “But remember, you have made a powerful enemy today. Targent will be watching you at every turn.”

The man turned to leave. One of the minions grumbled, and the man silenced him with a snap. “No, we don’t kill him. Boss’s orders.” The front door shut with a click as Targent left. Desmond was left all alone in his home with a battered, broken body that was unable to reach for help. He painstakingly dragged his body to the safety hatch hidden away in the kitchen despite both his hands still tied behind his back. There he found a sharp enough edge to cut the bonds. The override code to the safe took ages to key in, and the instant he succeeded, he was greeted with the relieving sight of his wife hurrying up the stairs. Her eyes snapped up his limp body and widened, seeing all the red pooling out of him.

“Desmond! No, no, no, this can’t be happening!”

“M’srry, Celeste,” Desmond mumbled out before completely blacking out. His only sense of solace was that he hadn’t given in, and that Targent hadn’t procured what they wanted: Both his family as leverage against him and his knowledge of the Azran. The darkness welcomed him as he slipped into unconsciousness.

—∮—

Desmond felt like he was on fire. He fully expected to be so when he cautiously opened his eyes, but was baffled, owing to the fact that he found himself to be floating among clouds. _This must be a dream_ , he thought, and took a moment to analyse his surroundings. The fluffy white things were serving as his temporary bed with the sun shining on from somewhere high in the sky. It still didn’t explain why he felt like his body was aching all over, and his family was not there. Desmond jerked as the realization hit him. He was frankly terrified and tried to swim through the layers of increasingly transparent and watery clouds. As he got low enough he felt his heart stop.

His treasured house was on fire, and he could hear screams from inside. Screams that sounded very much like Celeste and their sweet daughter Helen.

“NO!” Desmond couldn’t get there fast enough. On his arrival, he found that all reachable doors and window were barred shut so that no one could escape or get in. He banged fruitlessly against the doors to no avail. The burning heat added to his already tired frame, and he sank to the ground in anguish. The crackling fire and his family’s screams faded to a background noise due to a much more soothing intone interrupting his mind.

“…mond, love, …ke up, …ease…” And the world faded to white.

A pair of crimson eyes slowly opened to appraise their surroundings. He seemed to be in a hospital, if the medical instruments were anything to go by. Another pair of anxious azure eyes met his own. Desmond knew only one person with that level of compassion and affection. It took a moment to process that that his wife was not trapped in a prison ablaze, and when he absorbed the fact he reached out to touch her face to affirm she was really there. However, he couldn’t raise his left arm, for every movement sent a shooting pain down his nervous system. An accompanying ache occurred from his side.

“Celeste,” gods, was his voice _cracking_? “What, happened?”

Celeste replied with a sob and a gentle kiss to his forehead. “You were in a coma for two weeks! _Two_! I was so worried, Des!”

Desmond felt a weight drop into his stomach. He’d been out for two weeks, ample time for Targent to corner them to at least make a threat, if not outright kill them, and his mind clouded over when he couldn’t see Helen. Just then, a small hand clutched at his own. Its owner— _Helen, she’s alright, she’s safe!_ —smiled up at him with one red and one blue iris. Desmond was extremely relieved to see those innocent eyes. His gaze travelled from his daughter’s face to the hand she was holding, and he consequently understood why he couldn’t move his arm: it was heavily bandaged and in a cast. In the same cracking voice, he asked Celeste for some water and about his overall body health.

“You have numerous lacerations and bruises, a fractured left arm, internal damage which is thankfully mostly healed, and a stab wound that will definitely scar near your hip. The doctors said that you were incredibly lucky to be alive with the amount of blood you lost, Des. We even had to move you from our house because of the blood loss.” Celeste’s lips trembled as she looked into her husband’s face.

Desmond felt terrible. His family shouldn’t have been dragged into this mess with him, spiralling down a trail that was only detrimental for them. They should have had a chance to live a happy life that was in no way related to a fanatic archaeological organization with no morale whatsoever. It was with a heavy heart that he asked his wife about recent Targent activity concerning him.

“Strangely, they haven’t tried to infiltrate the hospital. But considering your face has been excessively plastered over the magazines these past weeks they might be more cautious.”

“My face? Why?”

Celeste gave him a fond, exasperated smile. “You’re the most famous archaeologist in these times, love. Of course everyone will be concerned when you’re attacked in your own home by some unknown thugs. A sponsor named Mr Philsburry has also expressed interest in attaching ‘security detail’ to this ward. I have accepted the proposal with grace, if you don’t mind.” She gestured to a heap of boxes next to his bed. “People have also sent get-well tokens from all over the world.

When did you even visit China, anyway?”

“A year before I met you, dear. I daresay that a Mr Wei sent the package?”

“Yes. Ah, and I had them checked for any unsavoury ones. They’re all clear.”

Desmond sighed with relief. A few minutes later doctors burst into the room. They swarmed the poor Professor with questions and tests, so when they were finished he was completely wrung out and ready to fall into a blissful state of oblivion. Only Helen’s insistent gaze kept him awake. She was sure Raymond was coming, and wanted him to be awake until the old butler did. After ten minutes, the aforementioned butler burst into the private ward.

“Master! You are finally awake!” Raymond had been in the Sycamore household since a year after Desmond’s adoption. They had become quite attached in a short span of time, enough so that Desmond’s adopted parents entrusted his care in the faithful butler’s hand when he graduated Gressenheller University at the tender age of eighteen.

“Raymond, glad to see you.”

“Master, so am I. I have tried to protect the Mistress and Miss Helen as you instructed, but you, Master, are an entirely different story. We could have lost you!”

“No, I was never in real danger of death,” Desmond realized with a start. “The attacker’s unknown leader—Targent’s leader—ordered his henchmen not to kill me. But why? Targent had no qualms about murdering other archaeologists or kidnapping them, but I was not subjected to either.”

“It is fortunate that the order was issued then. We’ll worry about that later; just focus on healing, now. Helen missed you dearly while you were half dead to the world.” Celeste’s words prompted Desmond to tighten the grip on his daughter’s hand. Helen replied with an awkward hug to prevent aggravating his wounds.

“Ah, Master, Lord Sycamore has been understandably upset with your situation. I believe Master will have a lot of explaining to do if he comes by.”

“Father knows about this?” Desmond groaned. He’d tried to keep his adopted parents out of the whole revengeful mess he’d made about his life since the day his biological parents had been taken by Targent. Viscount Jonathan Sycamore was a man who would fret over his adopted and only son every single day of the year. Viscountess Verity Sycamore was even more so, and it was she that had introduced Raymond, then a jobless friend in need, to the family for both him and her son even with their declining finances. True to her wishes, the aging butler bonded with the young genius exceedingly well, even electing to do some well-placed investments in the house market that reclaimed some of the lost fortune.

“Well, how could he not? Parents always keep their children in mind, Master, and you are not an exception. Consider what kept you in a hospital for two weeks.”

Desmond grumbled half-heartedly a bit more, then after a few more minutes of talk succumbed to the allure of sleep. It took a load off his mind now that he knew his family was safe. For once, his nightly terrors kept out of the way too.

The next time he opened his eyes, two achingly familiar people were sitting next to his bed. Desmond couldn’t help but gasp, “Mother? Father?”

“Desmond! You had us so worried!” His mother burst into tears and held his right hand. The suspicious watery gleam in his father’s eyes indicated that he was mere steps away from doing the exact same thing. Desmond managed to greet his parents properly albeit being crushed by a massive hug his mother was administering.

“I’m sorry this happened,” he started. Viscount Sycamore held up a hand to stop his son from going off a self-deprecating spiral. “No, the point where you’re sorry is entirely off, son. What you should be sorry is that you neglected to tell us you might be in danger from some distasteful people. Who were these…hoodlums that had the gall to harm you?”

“Father, this organization is dangerous. Especially since the head of operations changed, they have become more and more violent and cruel, and will not hesitate to kill if information was to be placed in the wrong hands. I worry for you and Mother’s life if I were to tell you the perpetrators.”

“Desmond,” his mother interrupted, “put yourself in our shoes. What would you have felt if it were us in the hospital and we refused to tell you the assailants, insisting that it was too dangerous for you to know? We feel the same. So please, for our sake, tell us.”

Desmond couldn’t argue with her, so he took a deep breath and spilled his knowledge of Targent to his parents. What they strived to achieve, the known members, his role in dismantling the group and everything related to the reason why he was being chased (or attacked, now) in the front place. To say that his parents were horrified was a gross understatement.

“So you are dealing with a world-sized criminal organization? Alone, to boot, with absolutely no backup?” His father clarified. Desmond winced. “If you put it like that, at least I have Raymond helping me. And since I’ve married, I altered my aims from annihilating them to just evading their grasp. The twenty-year-old grudge was almost ready to be buried, to be left in the past until this happened.”

“Oh, Desmond, you will be the death of me,” his mother murmured fondly. “But I understand. This ‘Targent’ must be ruthless and cold-hearted if they left you in such a state.”

“They’ve changed, too, because I have been threatened before numerous times. All kinds of blackmail and illegal means had been used to coerce me into cooperating with them, but not once have they tried to actively reach me or my family. It’s part of the reason why I’m concerned about your involvement. I know that there has been a change in management a few months before, but this new method is quite perturbing.”

Their conversation soon converted into ordinary talk; about the daily news, his father’s work, the family, relationships with other peers and the like. The bespoke attire that both had donned indicated that they were going somewhere important, so Desmond slowly steered them out to wherever they had been headed to before visiting him.

An additional week and a half passed before Desmond was released from the hospital. During that time, the Dean of Oxshire University, where he taught archaeology, visited and informed him his classes had been substituted for the time being, but he expected Desmond to return to teaching as soon as he could once he was discharged as he had missed the first month of the semester. Several students and a whole group of reporters had tried to barge in but was stopped by the irate security detail. The whole episode happened in plain view of the injured Professor, who got a big laugh out of it. On the day of his discharge, he still had a sling attached to his arm, not to mention that his side where he had been stabbed hurt like hell. His first stop was the modest country house he had grown to love and cherish.

“I have temporarily relocated Mistress and Miss Helen to my own home, Master.” Raymond told him while he was driving, the morning sun lighting the path. “No one knows where it is except for me, as it has been in disuse these past years.”

“Thank you, Raymond.”

“My pleasure, Master.”

The car pulled up near the house. Desmond slowly got out; the once soothing look of the house had changed into something more forlorn in the span of a few weeks. He stretched out a trembling hand and inserted the key into the doorknob. Upon stepping inside the house, he trod on something lying about on the floor. Frowning, he picked it up.

“What’s th—” The blood drained out of the professor’s face as he blankly stared at the sender. There was no address, no other attachment except for the simple letters that spelled out a name he had buried under layers of hopelessness and misery.

“Leon Bronev.” Desmond’s gaze travelled to the recipient. His name was on it, but it was the name he had given away, suppressed and forgotten over the years, a name that he had made peace with years ago. Hershel Bronev. Old memories that he’d tried to block out came crashing down on him as he held the innocent-looking letter in his now madly shaking hand.

“Master?” Raymond’s confused voice snapped him out of his reverie. Desmond took a deep breath and slit the envelope open. He conveniently ignored the blue seal that bore the Targent symbol as he shook the letter out. Desmond first searched for his father’s signature, the only thing except for his father’s face that he hadn’t forgotten over the years, and saw it at the bottom with the words that made his heart stop.

_Head of Targent._

Everything stilled. The air seemed devoid of oxygen as he struggled to breathe. The letter slid from his hand as he stared at nothing.

“No—”

Breathe in, breathe out. He couldn’t see a thing; his heart was going a mile a beat. Desmond was clearly mistaken when he had thought his life could get any worse. His biological father, Leon Bronev, was now the head of the organization that had torn the man’s family apart, the organization that had tried to kill his wife and daughter and Desmond felt something break inside him when he realized that his own father had intentionally attempted to murder his daughter-in-law and granddaughter.

It seemed like an eternity had passed while he just stood there, rooted in place from the sheer shock that one letter brought him. He was so far gone that only when he was guided into a chair did he really wake up. Raymond was staring at him with concern.

“Master, what seems to be the matter?”

“My father,” no, that didn’t seem right, “my biological father is the leader, of Targent,” here his throat clogged up, “a-and he—” his train of thought derailed. “I can’t believe it, Raymond. What could have happened? The kingpin of an illegal faction? And he purposefully attacks his blood family?”

The house was silent except for Desmond’s heavy breathing. He managed to draw up enough strength to pick up the letter he had discarded earlier. It seemed to weigh a ton in his hand.

_My dear boy Hershel,_

_It has been far too long since we last spoke, or met. As your father, I regret sending this letter in such circumstances but Targent needed the window to set an example for other archaeologists. I beg for your understanding._

_My underlings have voiced their concern in sending this letter for this kind of special treatment is unprecedented. You have refused to join our ranks before and paid the price, albeit it was lesser than what others were forced to pay. However, I am extending this opportunity to you once more. Your expertise in the Azran Civilization is unrivalled, and with your cooperation we could achieve great things together. Our combined forces shall be supreme. The world is your oyster, Hershel, and Targent is the key to picking all the pearls. You shall be my heir, and the leadership of Targent will fall to you if I retire. But this is all under the condition that you agree. Reject my proposal again and the consequences shall be dire, to say at the least. If you truly value your family’s life, you would think twice before saying no so easily._

_I will be awaiting your response at Covington’s on October 28th, 1800 sharp. Be punctual._

_Sincerely, Leon Bronev_

_Your Father_

_ Head of Targent _

Desmond let out a sound akin to an angered tiger and crumpled the paper into a ball. Brick-coloured eyes searched for something to let his anger out and when they failed to do so, he slammed a fist down on the coffee table next to him.

“This man is insane,” he hissed. “Join him? He must think me an idiot to even put those thoughts into words. And he has the audacity to expect me to meet him at Covington’s.”

“Surely, the esteemed Mr Covington would bar a criminal from entering his establishment. I have heard that the restaurant is unable to enter unless you are invited or of the nobility.” Raymond interjected.

“The man must have a peer in his clutches,” Desmond said, bitter despair spreading across his face. “There is no other way for him to have access to that place.” He rose from his seat, the preliminary anger giving way to grim determination. “Today is the 20th. After a week I am to meet him at Covington’s. Raymond, there is much to do between that time period.”

“Yes, Master.”

Crimson eyes gleamed behind red glasses. “Secure tickets for a boat ride. After we retrieve Celeste and Helen we are headed to France.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Updates will be slow; I beg for your understanding. School life takes up basically 15 hours a day so I barely have the time to sleep. (And finals are rapidly approaching, so after our finals end I'll be able to post more regularly)


	2. A Hello and Goodbye

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Desmond hides his family away. He also has dinner with two men both important in his life.

“Daddy, where are we going?”

“Somewhere safe, honey. Remember, we’re essentially French so minimal English once we leave the ship.”

“Are you sure this is going to work, dear? They might have agents even out here in France. It could be better if we just stayed with you.”

Desmond—now disguised as Jean Descolé—bit his lips. “France is still the best bet we’ve got. No relevant discoveries of Azran technology happened in the countryside, and I've visited the place we are headed beforehand. The village is secluded and a resourceful friend lives there. I’ll come visit as often as I can.”

“I’ll miss you, mon amour.” Celeste buried her face in his chest. She and Helen were dressed as common Frenchwomen, a widow named Mireille Chantal and her daughter Sylvie, who decided to retire to a village in Mireille's fatherland after her husband’s untimely death. Helen’s red eye was temporarily hidden behind an eyepatch. Desmond, disguised with blue irises and blonde hair, was posing as Mireille’s older brother Jean.

“And I you,” breathed Desmond. Unspoken words of how he wouldn't risk their lives died in his throat as he held his wife in his arms. A horn sounded, signalling the end of the cruise, and too soon, it was time for them to get off the ship. Too soon, Raymond came for them with a horse-drawn carriage, whisking them to the small peaceful village of Pierroux in the rural area of France.

 _“_ _Hello, Jean! It has been almost two years since you were here,”_ an excited townsman greeted the blonde man in French once they arrived, Jean helping Mireille off the stagecoach. _“Oh! And your wife is here too?”_

 _“_ _Alas, Mireille here isn’t my wife,”_ Jean interjected in smooth French. _“Mireille, this is Blanche Lefévre. Blanche, my sister Mireille Chantal and niece Sylvie Chantal."_

Blanche looked disappointed that Jean’s wife was not there, but quickly composed himself. After some quick greetings, he was all smiles when the three set off to the house Jean had purchased discreetly as a safehouse during his short stay in France.

 _“_ _So you bought this house after all! I knew you would like it,”_ exclaimed Blanche once they reached their destination. _“Are you settling here, Jean?”_

_“_ _I unfortunately have other occupations that require my attention for me to retire to Pierroux, But Mireille and Sylvie will be here for some time. Mireille wanted to leave England, for a great tragedy befell her there, and the memories were too haunting for her to stay.”_

Jean placed a hand on Mireille’s shoulders as he spoke. Mireille joined the conversation at that point. _“Yes, England reminds me too much of my late husband, and I had been homesick for a long time. Sylvie cannot speak French that well because she has only lived in England, so I hope you grant some leniency to her?”_

_“_ _Of course, of course, madam! Now if you are to live here, you’ll want to meet all the people here. Have you had lunch? It’s almost noon!”_

Blanche was being too enthusiastic, Jean thought. He stopped the man going off on a rant by gesturing to the luggage in the carriage with his right hand. _“We will have to unpack before all that, Blanche.”_

Blanche conceded, but then noticed Jean’s sling. _“Oh, what foul being had you injured, Jean?”_

_“_ _Ah,” Jean started. “It was an accident. Nothing to worry about.”_

Blanche worried over him some more and promised to meet them near the tall oak tree on the outskirt of town when they were finished. He gave Jean a small signal to meet him alone at his home as he left. Once left alone, Celeste turned to Desmond with a sad smile on her lips.

“This is it, isn’t it?”

Desmond could only nod at his wife, at a loss for words. Helen, who had been silent all the time, piped up with a despondent undertone.

“When are you going to come back, Daddy?”

“At least once a month, honey. I’ll call every day, wait for me and be good?”

The family shared a tearful embrace. After they furnished the empty house into a more inviting place with Raymond’s help, Desmond once more donned his guise. Jean said his goodbyes to Mireille and Sylvie and went to meet Blanche as he was told to.

_"So, Jean, what really brings them here?"_

_"Straight to the point, aren't you?"_ Jean sighed. Blanche was a retired officer who had served with the _Légion Étrangère_ , and his words were usually straight to the point and blunt. His happy-go-lucky façade was a very convincing one though. _"I'm being targeted by a certain universal organization. Those two are my only surviving kin; I do not want any harm to befall them."_

 _"The same one that drove you here injured two years ago?"_ Blanche raised an eyebrow. _"Wouldn't it be safe to hide them somewhere else?"_

_"They didn't know I was here, if I remember correctly. I just snuck on a random carriage and let Fate decide my destination."_

Blanche had a contemplating look on his face. Finally he nodded and said, _"well then, I'll do my best to keep them safe. Soldier's honour."_

 _"Thank you,"_ Jean exhaled. They shook hands, Jean entrusting Mireille and Sylvie's care to Blanche. The blonde soon left town silently with Raymond.

It was with a heavy heart that the archaeology professor returned to his residence in England. It was late evening, and hardly a day had passed, but his sadness had already doubled since he left his wife and daughter in Pierroux. Raymond probably sensed his unease because when they arrived, he gave his Master a strong dressing-down followed by a stern remark that he should get himself together, because he was the main opposition against Targent now and that he should keep a clear head if he wanted to eliminate them.

“Whatever happens, Master, I will always stand by your side,” the old butler spoke. “So do not fret, do not worry; for you shall never truly be alone.”

Desmond let his breath out and nodded slowly. “You’re right, Raymond. I’ll try to focus more.” He chewed on his words for a brief second before uttering them, the words that would change everything: “I’ll be meeting Hershel Layton three days from now. Raymond, make the reservations at Covington’s at six on October 25th.”

“Are you sure, Master? He knows nothing, and it may draw even more attention to him if you meet him so soon after the attack.”

“Well then, I’ll just have to be cautious about the whole thing.”

Raymond bowed. “If you say so, Master.”

—∮—

Early the next day, Desmond was engaged in the familiar preparations for his work. His injured arm got in the way, but he managed to be comfortably clothed in his usual attire: a black suit with a red necktie his parents had given him a few years ago. His hair, which had been down or in a ponytail the past weeks, was once more rolled up. The red-rimmed glasses completed the ‘Professor Sycamore’ look.

“Dashing as always, Master,” Raymond commented as he readied the car. “Ready for teaching once again?”

“I’ll have to go over what the substitute had covered, but nonetheless, yes I am.”

As soon as the car reached the University, flashbulbs exploded in all directions. Desmond sighed as he got out of the car, resigning to his fate since reporters were blocking the only way into his workplace. The vulturesque journalists soon converged on him, asking all sorts of questions while trying to shove their competitors out of the way. Desmond was ready to just bolt until a booming voice told them to move it or you’ll be put behind bars faster than you can say Scotland Yard.

“You all right there, Professor?” Desmond searched for his saviour. Scotland Yard constables were surrounding him, keeping the reporters away. A man in a light grey suit stood in the middle.

“Yes, thank you, officer. But, how-?”

“The dean tipped us off and requested our services. Pleased to meet you, the name’s Inspector Chelmey.”

Desmond silently thanked the Dean for his thoughtfulness. “Well then, Inspector, my most sincere thanks for saving me from the reporters.”

“Don’t mention it,” came the gruff reply as the small group moved towards the gates of the university. Half of the students on the ground had noticed the commotion at the gates and turned to stare at the policemen and the lone Professor in the middle. Subsequently much excited pointing and shouting occurred when someone noticed Desmond’s face and yelled out that the Professor was back.

“Well, I’ll get going before I get mobbed again, Inspector. Thank you again for the kind welcome today,” Desmond smiled at Chelmey then ran through the small opening in the ring of constables. He managed to evade everyone until he reached the Dean’s office on the second floor of the main building. The door opened right after he knocked twice.

“Professor Sycamore! Do come in, I hope your injuries have healed well?” Dean Winchester was an aging man well into his sixties. Despite his age, he kept a jovial appearance that reflected off his faculty in varying degrees. Although Desmond had spent half of his educational career out in the world discovering and researching, the Dean never minded much and always requested for him to return every year, allowing the Professor to explore freely. His reputation as a prominent figurehead in Azran civilization studies, a celebrated archaeologist specializing in excavating ancient ruins and translating ancient tongues could never satisfy his thirst for teaching, and the Dean helped sate it by giving him a seat to teach, provided he stay a full year every time.

“Yes, Dean Winchester. I am most grateful for your considerate actions this morning. I would have been in quite a predicament if it weren’t for your insight.”

“It was nothing, my dear Professor! Ah, but your arm!”

“The wound is fairly healed, so I will be out of the cast in a week.”

The Dean sent him a worried glance. “If you say so, Professor. Now, I believe you wish to see the material Professor Wood covered for you?”

Desmond nodded with apprehension congregating in his stomach. A month out of commission could lead to many things, and half of his ideas were worrying. The Dean led him to his office. The inside was the same as he remembered, with the pile of books in one corner and a battered suitcase on the other. A pile of reports was stacked neatly upon his desk in a manner that was surely the work of the other professor.

“Your students have been clamouring for your return, you know,” said the Dean as he made way for the professor. “Professor Wood is a good tutor, but even he cannot match your expertise in archaeology that you so flawlessly employ in your lectures. You truly are a great educator.”

Desmond hid his glowing face behind a random piece of paper. “Th-thank you, Dean Winchester.”

“You don’t have any classes today, so feel free to go over the curriculum and Wood’s work!” On that happy note, the Dean excused himself. Desmond turned to the tower of paperwork and let out a sigh. But first things first, he reached for his typewriter and started on a letter to one Hershel Layton.

The day passed by uneventfully, if you could count being mobbed by overexcited archaeology students at lunch and accidentally starting an almost-riot as normal. Desmond was drained of his energy after the first day back, but also happy to be in his element again. Professor Wood had surprisingly done a decent job with his lesson plans, so he saw no harm in continuing where the other had left off. After he called his family as promised and retired for the night he thought back to the letter he had instructed to deliver just this afternoon. He hoped the professor’s reputation as a puzzle-solver did him justice and enable him to find the hidden message in it.

The very next day he started on his lessons once again. Some students he was familiar with, some were a bit unfamiliar for he had seen them for only a month before the attack, but he treated them all the same with passion. Teaching had always been enjoyable for him, and the warm welcome he received from his pupils doubled his delight in doing so. While he was planning his next lecture he heard his office door creak open.

“Master, Professor Layton has sent his reply. He will meet you at Covington’s tomorrow at the time you set.” Raymond appeared at his side with a cup of warm tea in his hands. Desmond smiled tiredly as he gave his gratitude to the butler. He had been keeping tabs on his distanced brother from time to time through his parents, but he had never really met him in fear of himself losing control of his emotions and breaking down. But now, there were too many things at stake to have a meltdown. Ironically, while he had kept the secret till now to protect his little brother, at this point he must let it out to protect him.

The following day he carefully selected his clothes for the evening. It was finally dawning on him that he would see his brother properly for the first time since they were children, and he was deteriorating into a nervous mess as time flew by. He tried not to show his distracted mind while he was teaching, but nonetheless, a young miss noticed his anxiety and gave him some chocolate as the bell rang, signalling the end of a class.

‘You should relax, Professor, for being on edge has no good effect on you and makes things only worse,’ she had said. Desmond felt a pang of guilt that he had let his emotions show so blatantly. He’d apologized to her, but she laughed it off saying that it must be something very important for him to act like that. Five’ o clock approached rapidly, and the Professor changed into the outfit he had selected in the morning.

“Ready to go, Master?” Twenty minutes before six, Raymond arrived with the car. They reached the restaurant with five minutes to spare. Desmond was desperately trying to calm himself with no success. He shakily stepped out of the car and muttered to himself to for god’s sake calm down before spotting a top hat near the entrance.

“Professor Layton?” His voice shouldn’t be trembling this much. Thankfully Layton seemed oblivious to it as he turned and greeted him.

“Professor Sycamore! It is a great honour to meet you. Thank you very much for this invitation.”

“Likewise, Professor. Well then, shall we go in?”

The two men stepped inside the establishment. Although Desmond was accustomed to the extravagant service of the staff, Layton seemed overwhelmed by the whole setting, judging from the lost look in his eyes. One of the waiters led them to a private room in the far corner, leaving them with the menu as he silently bowed himself out. Desmond couldn’t help chuckling out loud at Layton’s expression as they took a seat and placed their napkins accordingly.

“Are you quite all right, Professor?”

“Ah! Yes, yes I am. It’s just, well,” he gestured wildly at the surroundings, “very impressive.”

“Most people would say the same if they could ever step inside this building.” Desmond smiled. “Covington’s has been known to only serve the royalty, nobility, and the guests they invite.”

Recognition dawned on the other Professor’s face. “So you’re…”

“Desmond Sycamore, only son of Viscount Sycamore at your service.”

“Oh.” Layton once more turned his attention to the menu before him. “I have to admit, I’m a little lost here. Your letter quite surprised me the other day. I was flattered, of course, that you thought so highly of me, practically a nobody. You said you wished to meet me for archaeological discussions but the hidden missive told an entirely different story. What is it that you have to tell me in such secret?”

“I wouldn’t say you’re a nobody, Professor Layton. You’re the youngest person in history to become a professor at Gressenheller.” Oh, how he wanted to say his brother’s name. “I would also like to continue this discussion with a full stomach. May I recommend the steak? The chef here is quite proficient in his dishes, especially bovine meat.”

“By all means, Professor Sycamore, I feel faint just looking at these prices. I wouldn’t mind if you selected my course for me!”

“Very well then.” Desmond called for a waiter by tugging at a rope. He ordered his usual course for dinner meetings, plus some other delicacies just for the other Professor. They indulged in some more cordial conversation like Layton’s top hat(May I please keep my hat on? Yes, I don’t really mind, Professor.) while they waited for the first course to arrive.

With the first four courses comfortably inside him, Desmond felt his frayed nerves relax with the glasses of accompanied wine he imbibed. Layton also seemed much more at ease if the way his stance unwound was any indication. They had started on a discussion on one of Layton’s recent studies and it had rapidly turned into a full-blown debate. The main course, while delightful, unfortunately had a lesser impact than the preceding ones and then finally it was time for dessert. It was also when Desmond had decided to drop the metaphorical bomb.

“So, Professor, as you correctly deduced I have something important to tell you tonight,” he started. Breathe in, breathe out. “What do you recall about your childhood?”

“My childhood?” Layton frowned. “I led a normal life, I believe, except for the fact that I was adopted. What about it is relevant?”

“Do you recall anything about the life before you were adopted?”

“Well, now that you mention, I used to have these strangest dreams where a boy a bit older than me kept appearing. He had the most curious eyes like…” He faltered, staring at Desmond’s brick-coloured irises. “Your eyes…?”

“You remember then, do you?” Desmond wore a small, sad smile on his lips.

“I, but what—?”

“Allow me.” He interrupted in a low voice. “Once upon a time there was a small family, with two boys named Hershel and Theodore and their parents. The parents were both archaeologists and they were a happy, content and normal household.” He hissed out the word normal as if it personally offended him. “But one day, some cult members came to their little house. They wanted the father’s knowledge, the father’s mind concerning archaeology.

“And so the parents were taken away.

“A year later, an old couple wished to adopt the now orphaned boys. They only had enough money to adopt one, and they wanted to meet the one named Hershel, the boy who was told to be a prodigy. Hershel wanted his brother to lead a normal and happy life, for he was too consumed with grief and anger and thoughts of revenge. So the boy named Hershel became Theodore, and Theodore became Hershel, and they were separated ever since.”

Layton cut in with a stunned look on his face. “Then, you’re… my brother?”

“That I am.” Desmond sighed. “I would have contacted you sooner but I had been unfortunately occupied with the rather hazardous group I just told you for a long time. I thought that maybe, if I just kept to myself, if I stayed away from you, maybe they wouldn’t try to hurt you or take you away.”

But then Celeste happened, recalled the older Professor. A woman so stubborn and passionate that he had been taken by her after a few chance meetings. Apparently she had felt the same, because one day after a lecture she had walked up to him and kissed him right on the lips. Too shocked to respond, Desmond had just sat there with a dumbfounded look until she pulled away. They became fast friends and after three years of flirting and courting they were standing at the altar, being pronounced as husband and wife. She had made his life fuller and had finally succeeded in tearing his attention from the revenge he had planned to execute on Targent. She had also remembered him of the fragility of life, the dangers that being associated with him may bring about, and that prompted him to contact his brother for she had accepted him even when he had told her of Targent.

“I was quite mistaken about a majority of my relationships, my parents, my wife. I didn’t think that anybody would want to stay with me after I told them of what I was planning, what I was going up against.”

“Of course they would care, they’re family.” Hershel replied automatically. He still had a shocked expression, but he’d evidently gathered enough of his wits to speak. “I would have cared too. I— you gave up a happy life for me. I am eternally grateful for that.”

“You had your fair share of sorrow in your life, though. I’d been keeping in touch with your parents, Her-Professor.” Desmond stumbled over his words.

“Please, call me Hershel. We are brothers after all.”

“Then you may call me Desmond.”

The rest of the dinner was spent with the two brothers reconciling. Desmond told Hershel about his family and Hershel about his; they shared their memories and loved ones. Desmond actually worked up the courage to tell Hershel about Targent and his brother was suitably horrified by the deeds they committed. By the end, they were much more at ease with each other, but Hershel seemed to have one last question.

“Desmond, you’ve avoided all my questions about our birth parents. What exactly happened to them? Are they alive?”

Desmond stiffened, for he had hoped to avoid that exact question until now. He lost control of his voice as he snarled, “Our father is a heartless monster and I want nothing to do with him!”

Hershel pulled back, surprised by the venom in his brother’s words and the gleam of red eyes. He looked confused, but the steel in his eyes indicated that he wasted answers, not the endless avoidance. Once Desmond calmed himself down he continued in a tight-clipped tone. “Sorry, but I—you don’t really want to know what happened to him, Hershel.”

“I’m not the five-year-old that needs coddling anymore, Desmond, I am 32 years old and prepared for anything, so just tell me.”

“Fine.” Desmond growled. “His name is Leon Bronev; and he’s the leader of Targent.”

Silence reigned. Hershel looked like he was shocked, judging from the way he just sat there with his mouth slightly agape and Desmond couldn’t fault him at all.

“He rose to power a few months ago,” he elaborated. “Shortly after I noticed the change in leadership the amount of dead or incapacitated families of archaeologists went up harshly. Before, they had routinely threatened the scholars, blackmailed them, harassed them but never harmed anyone so blatantly. I became concerned for my own family then and built a safe for them. It was really a foresight as they also came knocking a month ago.”

“Targent attacked you,” Hershel said. “And they were the ones responsible for your prolonged stay in the hospital. But to maim his own son and his family? Bronev is indeed cruel.”

There was quiet anger in Hershel’s words. Desmond dragged his hand over his face. “Sadly I don’t know what happened to our mother, but as I’ll be meeting the man in person three days from now, the answer will probably be drawn out from him with the right words. And Hershel,” he said as he stood up, “Pretend you don’t know me. Pretend that you know nothing, because those who are aware of Targent normally have two options: join them, or lose everything dear to you, and I cannot bear the thought of you losing anyone.”

“If it were anything like that, Desmond, that would be because I willingly joined your cause, not because of you.” Hershel also rose from his seat. As they stood just behind the grand doors, he turned to his older brother. “Stay safe, Desmond.”

“I try to.” Desmond gave his brother a small smile. They parted ways when they exited the building with mixed feelings; relief, sorrow, joy and determination all jumbled into a rainbow of emotions. Resolution made itself visible on the older brother’s features as he walked to his car. He would protect his family no matter what it cost him.

—∮—

Three days went by faster than light, and the 28th loomed over Desmond’s head every second of the wait. He’d set out a different suit this time; reuniting with his lost brother was one thing, but engaging his potential killer-turned-biological father was another, and the two different situations called for different outfits. Saturday nights were a popular time for meetings to commence, so the road was even more packed than last time. Although they had started out early it was already five minutes before six when they reached the restaurant. Raymond, as always, would be there keeping an eye on the situation while Desmond walked inside with no small amount of trepidation.

“Welcome, Sir Sycamore. There is a gentleman waiting for you on the second floor.” Mr Covington, the owner himself, hurried over to greet him this time. Desmond raised an eyebrow but allowed himself to be taken away. Bronev must really have an influential peer backing him, he mused, Mr Covington wouldn’t have greeted me like this unless a man of great power came to visit. The sheer atrocity of the situation flared inside Desmond in the form of cold ice spreading across his stomach.

The second floor was a beautifully created piece of art, as some critiques say. Intricate designs layered the walls, candles on them cast a soft glow on the diners, a dance floor was set for whenever the need arose, the service was excellent, and the private rooms were fashioned to keep sound from entering or leaving with velvet hangings and another door. It was one of these rooms that Desmond was directed to.

“Glad you could come, my boy.” Bronev greeted him with a sardonic smile tugging on his lips. On his right sat the Duke of Beldin, one of the most influential hands in the stock market, and that shocked the young Professor to the core.

“Your Grace, it is an honour,” Desmond bowed slightly before seating himself. He pointedly ignored Bronev in every way. The man hummed before sharply kicking Desmond in the shins under the table. The Professor choked back a yell of pain and reluctantly addressed Bronev as “Mr Bronev”.

“Such manners, Desmond. You shall refer to me as Father, and nothing else,” tutted Bronev.

Desmond glared at him, ready to lash out, but the presence of the Duke left him no choice but to comply. Bronev wore a satisfied smirk as he opened his mouth once more.

“What would you like, my boy? Surely you have been here many times to pick a favourite.”

“I am _not_ your boy,” said Desmond before he could stop himself. Bronev simply overlooked the barb as he relinquished his reins to the Duke.

“There’s no need for this antagonism,” the Duke announced. “We are gentlemen, and we should act like one.”

Desmond tried to reason with him. “Your Grace, do you know what this man has done, what he had committed to achieve his goals?”

“Yes, Mr Sycamore, I am very much well aware of what Mister Bronev did, but sometimes exceptions and sacrifices are needed for the greater good. The Azran Civilization could benefit us all in great levels. If truth be told, I am also rather interested in archaeology myself, and Targent has the potential to uncover extraordinary artefacts.”

Disbelief was written all over Desmond’s face, but he said no more until the food was served. He kept silent throughout the meal, barely touching the enticing spread in front of him in fear of his nerves controlling his mouth and stomach. The monstrosity of the schemes that were being carried out weighed heavily on his mind. One of the more influential Dukes was funding Targent, and money was a necessity nowadays for everything. His own small fortune that came from his abilities as an archaeologist in the form of sponsors came nowhere close to what the Duke could utilize at moment’s notice. Suddenly his whole mission seemed more desolate than ever before, for what could a lone archaeologist professor do to stand up against a deadly criminal organisation and an absurdly wealthy funder?

“So, son,” Bronev stapled his hands under his chin, “as I said in the letter, I am giving you this exceptional chance again with generosity. You have seen what Targent can do, you have felt our power. Your skills and mind would be a great asset to us, and you will be treated as one would treat royalty here. The seat of the heir, and later on, the leadership shall also fall to you if you join us. Just think about the endless possibilities that you could enjoy! We could be a happy family again when I find where Theodore ran off to and convince him to come. You could write your name down in history as the great finder of the Azran Legacy.”

So he hasn’t found out that Hershel Layton is Theodore Bronev, good, thought Desmond. Outwardly, he said, “Before I answer, I have one question. What happened to Mother?”

“Rachel…” Bronev murmured, a wistful look on his face. “She did not survive the experience there.”

The words that Bronev said no longer registered in Desmond’s mind as his first few words rang loudly in his head. She did not survive; she did not survive. He gritted his teeth and with a tight voice said, “You killed her.”

“It was—I’m sorry, what?”

“You killed her, Father,” Desmond repeated, anger rising every millisecond, “you killed her by staying there!”

“It was a terminal illness!” Bronev snarled right back, suddenly every bit angry as his son. His eyes gleamed dangerously red. “She was going to die either way!”

“She could have received better care if she hadn’t been trapped in a maniac secluded cult obsessed with the Azran.” Desmond was breathing heavily, gripping the table harshly in a fit of anger. This was getting far too personal but he didn’t care. His faint snippets of fond memories with his biological mother only served as fuel for his rage. “I will never join Targent!”

“Then you will be forfeiting another two lives.” Bronev growled out. He produced a black tablet and fiddled with it for a second. The slate abruptly came to life, and the people in it were—

“Mother? Father!”

His parents seemed happy in the moving picture. They were at home, Desmond realized, and resting peacefully in the balcony, seemingly oblivious of the danger they were currently in.

“These are your adopted parents, are they not?” Bronev said. “Although they took you from me, I am willing to spare their miserable existence if you become a member of Targent. If you don’t, you know what will happen, don’t you?”

Desmond was shocked and disgusted at the same time. “This is a low blow for you, even if you are a pathetic excuse for a human being driven mad by your lust for the Azran Legacy.” He whipped his head to the silent Duke. “Your Grace, this man has to be stopped! He’s threatening a murder of a Viscount!”

“Is that how you speak to your father? Hmm, these two have taught you poorly.”

“You wouldn’t dare to harm a peer!”

“What makes you so sure?”

The younger man trembled in his seat. “I don’t believe you! You’re lying, there’s no way you could’ve reached them.” He stood up, both hands balled up into fists at his side. “They wouldn’t want me to join Targent either if they knew. Never try to talk me into joining you again, I’ll never, ever comply. I’d take the threat of death over peaceful servitude any day!”

Desmond stormed out of the establishment. If he had stayed a bit longer, he would have heard Bronev say “So let it be, then,” and send a message to one of his followers. He would have known that a few hundred miles away, his parents would soon be surrounded by men in indigo clothing armed to the teeth.

A few minutes later, a solitary car was racing just below the speed limit. Desmond had left stating that he didn’t believe Bronev, but his heart thudded in fear for his parents. His parents were people who had invited him into their lives despite his reluctance to be affectionate; they had loved him for what he was, the pent-up ball of cold anger and revenge. It had taken him more than three years to open up to his adoptive parents, and by then he’d almost finished secondary school. Even now, Desmond sometimes felt unworthy of their love that they gave him in abundance, the love that he couldn’t even return a quarter of. He clenched his hands so tightly that his nails dug into his palms.

From the moment he could see his parent’s estate, Desmond felt that something was off. It was too quiet, the windows were darkened, and the lively energy the Sycamore residence usually gave off was non-existent. None of the servants came out to greet the car as they approached the main entrance. Raymond stopped the engine and turned to his Master.

“It might be wise to report to the police before we enter, Master. Who knows what danger might lie behind those doors?”

“No, I’m going inside. I have to see for myself that Bronev didn’t follow through with his threat.” Desmond’s face was ghostly pale, but his face was set. He marched towards the silent house and pushed open the door. The smell of freshly drawn blood hit his nostrils immediately. He could make out a faint outline slumped against the hallway.

“Bernie? Bernie!” Desmond closed the distance in a few long strides; he shook the fallen man’s shoulders desperately. The man’s head lolled on his shoulders, his pulse non-existent.

“No…” Desmond was absolutely horrified. He stumbled back uncertainly and then ran to the balcony. Dread clogged up his veins and lungs as his Oxfords made clicking sounds across the floorboards. He paid no attention to Raymond at his back making a hasty retreat to call the police.

“Mother! Father!” Desmond called for his parents in a panicked voice. He came across more dead-looking servants as he advanced. Lorelai, Sheila, Quinn, those who he knew by name and heart. There were more bloody footprints near the balcony, and when he turned on the light, Desmond could do nothing but just stand and stare.

His parents were lying there, side by side, and by a cursory glance seemed like they were simply sleeping. The blood and brain matter spread out like a halo around their heads told a different story. A small card was placed on his father’s chest. Desmond walked towards his father in a daze and gently lifted it up to read it.

_Congratulations, Hershel. You have made your choice, and these two paid the price for it. Until next time, your Father._

Desmond felt extremely lightheaded after reading the missive. He took a step back, swayed on his feet, and crumpled to the floor in a heap. When the police arrived on the devastating scene with Raymond, they found the Professor unconscious right next to his dead parents, glasses askew, tear tracks making their way down his cheek.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry this one took so long to update, our finals aren't frnished.  
> I an so sorry for the deaths of Desmond's parents.


	3. The Bostonius

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Death is like a hard punch to one's gut, but will things start to get better for Desmond?

Desmond slowly came to his senses in a bed. The first thought he had was: _Mother and Father will be so angry that I landed myself in a hospital again._

The second thought was like a blow to his head. _They’re dead. My parents are dead._

Desmond struggled to sit up, his breaths coming in short, quick gasps. His sight was still blurry, but he could see a hand reaching to him, trying to touch him. He twisted away from the hand, but only succeeded in inducing a bout of pain in his sternum.

“Master, please, it’s me, Raymond!”

“Raymond?” The world slid into focus with his faithful butler’s voice. The old man himself was peering at him anxiously.

“Why-why am I in a hospital?”

“We found you passed out in the balcony, Master.” Raymond explained patiently. “You didn’t wake, so the paramedics brought you here to see if you sustained any other injuries.”

“Where are my parents?” His next words were almost a whisper, but Raymond understood it and placed a comforting hand on his shoulders.

“They’re in the morgue. Before we go, let’s change you out of that thing you have on: it’s already ruined.”

Desmond looked down. He was still in the clothes he had worn to the botched dinner; bloodstains were all over the once immaculate suit and he felt sick to the core, knowing whose blood it was.

“Did anyone else survive?”

“Only two more: Millie the chef and Wallace the driver. The other five were already dead by the time we got to them.”

Desmond hung his head. All those deaths, the nine innocent people who were struck down because they had committed no other crime than to be affiliated with him. He wouldn’t fault Raymond if he chose to leave his side; after all, he was like a walking disaster, bringing untimely deaths to the ones around him.

“Do not blame yourself over this, Master. It is my choice to stand beside you, and I would never regret it, however dangerous it may be. Viscount Sycamore wouldn’t have wanted you to bear the burden, he would have told you that you should get a grip, move on and live for the sake of the people that died and you cared about.”

Desmond was at a loss for words with emotion threatening to burst through, but he accepted the spare clothes from Raymond and lifted himself from the bed to change. Minutes later, he was once looking prim and proper, albeit with dark circles under his eyes. The pair left for the hospital morgue.

The next few days was a blur to the grieving Professor. Plans for the funeral, arrangements with the funeral director, talks with the deceased servants’ families, legal issues that had to be resolved, executing his parent’s will—everything was put into action under Raymond’s watchful eye, seeing as Desmond was running on autopilot. The full pain and sorrow didn’t hit him until he was standing in the family graveyard, watching his parents’ caskets being lowered into the ground. Needless to say, he had to be carried out once more by concerned service attendees who saw Desmond kneel over.

It got worse when Celeste called. Too caught up in his own feelings, Desmond had even forgotten to call his family back in France, and Celeste had called in with concern. Telling Celeste about the fate of her in-laws was hard, but telling Helen was infinitely more so.

“Daddy, are we going to grandpa’s for pudding? It was so fun last year!”

They had always made Christmas Pudding a month before the actual date. Desmond’s heart clenched as Helen listed off the things she wanted to do with her grandparents—her grandparents that she would never see again. When Helen asked him why isn’t he answering, did something happen to grandpa and grandma, Desmond couldn’t take it anymore and choked out a sorry before slamming the receiver down, curling up into a ball in his study. The absence of Celeste and Helen hurt more than ever.

The two weeks he spent grief-stricken took a toll on his whole appearance. His clothes hung off his too-thin frame, his skin was an unhealthy pallor of sickly pale and his hair lost its once silken quality. His guilt that he was responsible for his parents’ deaths only doubled the anguish, and he had almost resorted to self-harm just to see if it did him any good in alleviating the hopelessness.

“Master, what are you doing!”

Raymond had found him sitting motionless in the master bedroom, a pocketknife poised right above his wrist and a distant look on his face. The new Viscount received quite a scolding for his troubles. Despite all that, he managed to return to Oxshire on November 13th. This time, when he silently got out of the car, the students skirted around him, for they had seen the papers and the haggard look on the Professor’s face confirmed the tragedy. This mess had started in late September, when he had been attacked; now it was mid-November and the hollow pain on Desmond’s face didn’t show any sign of being lifted. The only things that kept him going was the constant support from Raymond and the daily calls with his concerned family (he would never think of Bronev as family). During that time, something he had not anticipated, something wonderful happened in the form of a phone call.

“Desmond?” The caller had a gentle, worried tone of voice. Desmond instantly knew who was calling him.

“Hershel?” The disbelief in the word made him cringe immediately after he said it. “I thought I told you to stay—”

“Desmond, phone calls are hard to trace back, Targent knows nothing of my relationship with you, and I’m calling from my flat in London. And I worry, brother. I am truly sorry for your loss. If I can’t be there in person, at least let me be there by spirit.”

He didn’t know why the word ‘brother’ made him tear up like this, but already drops had congregated in his eyes and threatened to spill over as he replied in a choked voice. “I—thank you, Hershel. Thank you so much.”

“There’s no need to,” said Hershel softly. “I know you would have done the same if it was me in your place, even if it means compromising your own safety.”

That was the breaking point for the older brother as he felt the first few drops of emotion leak. The following conversation was not much of a conversation but a one-sided crying session in which Desmond kept repeating it’s all my fault and Hershel trying to soothe him.

A week after the call, he was working on a student’s essay feverishly when he heard footsteps approach.

“Master, this has to end.”

“What—ah, Raymond.” Desmond lifted his eyes from the paper he was drilling a hole in with his glare. “Pray tell, what must stop?”

“You are wasting away, Master! Just look at yourself; none of your clothes fit you now, and you look positively ill. I will secure tickets for France tomorrow, and we will be spending the weekend in Pierroux.”

Desmond stopped short of his retort and shut his mouth with a humph. Raymond’s tone suggested that he would have hell to pay if he refused, so he conceded. Truthfully, he rather wanted to see Celeste and Helen again—talks over the telephone only did so much—so it might actually be a good thing for him.

Saturday saw Jean Descolé on a small boat headed to France. His servant greeted him with a carriage, and the two left for Pierroux right away. A young dame was waiting for the two on the outskirts of town, holding a small girl’s hand.

“Jean!” Yelled the woman excitedly as she reached for the man inside the carriage. With a chuckle, he bodily lifted her and spun her around. The little girl beside her squealed, grasping for him too, and he complied with the same fervour.

“Oh, Desmond, we have so much to talk about,” murmured Celeste. For a second, Jean was Desmond then, but soon the other persona took over, and Jean walked inside the small house furnished with love. There he took off his disguise as Jean Descolé, donned his glasses and transformed into Desmond.

“Anything happened that I should know, Celeste?” He asked. Celeste shook her head.

“We’re good around here; most are amicable and generally friendly. But I can’t say the same for you. Your parents… I’m so sorry.”

Desmond hid his watery eyes behind a false laugh. “I’m okay now.”

“No, you aren’t.” Celeste wrapped her arms around Desmond. “But I hope you feel a bit better after your visit. At the very least you are leaving with a full stomach and nothing less!”

He’d forgotten how warm her hugs were, how it seemed to breathe life in him even in times when he was buried deep in a pit of black despair. He finally let go of his tightly wound anguish and sobbed into her shoulder. Celeste simply patted his back, soothing him, and Helen joined the two in a family hug.

Desmond spent the weekend in a happy bubble of love and comfort with his family. It was just like his life before he had been assaulted, the three of them resting in peace with no other people bothering them. He enjoyed pure bliss during the two days, but as Sunday afternoon breezed by, he knew it was time to go.

“Next month, then?”

“Yes… Goodbye, Helen, Celeste. I’ll see you again, I promise.”

Desmond stepped outside the small house. The cold November wind whipped his face harshly as he waited for Raymond to pick him up, to return to the now empty and lonely house back in England.

During the following days he busied himself once more with his work, but this time he was taking time to execute normal everyday functions like eating or sleeping unlike the weeks before. He slowly fell into the lifestyle he had enjoyed once in a lifetime before—only without his family. It left a gaping hole in his heart whenever he saw the bedroom that his daughter had lighted up with her laughter, his wife had brightened with her smile.

November gave way to December with a certain festivity that touched every nook and cranny of the drab English air. Desmond woke up one day to see white flakes swirling and descending outside, the sky a murky grey. It was snowing, a rare thing in England to see. He felt a dull pang as he remembered his daughter’s reaction to seeing snow for the first time; she had been enchanted by the cold things that disappeared as soon as she touched them and spent a whole day out with him and Celeste trying to catch the flakes. He ambled down the stairs half-asleep to find his butler holding out a cream-coloured envelope.

“Master, the usual invitations to the Yule Ball.”

Desmond accepted it and slit it open. The elegant script inside was a polite summons to the annual Yule Ball for the Peers of England that all the Dukes took turn organizing. Despite the invitation being extended to the spouses and children of peers the number of guests that actually came were not that big. Desmond had always declined the summons before, for he had no interest in the politics of nobility and pompous snobs that were bound to be there, but now he felt an obligation as the newly recognized Viscount Sycamore. In addition, he could make some new allies in the nobility while he attended.

“Shall I send the rejection message, Master?”

“No, this time I’m going. Maybe I can form new bonds within the peerage.”

Raymond looked surprised, but then the look turned into an understanding smile. “As you wish, Master.”

Two days before the ball Desmond took time off to visit his family once more, where Helen complained about ‘Daddy spending Christmas away’ and her poor father tried his best to appease the girl. The town of Pierroux was covered with snow by the time he got there, so he spent the majority of the first day building a snowman with her. He was pulled into Christmas preparations with the townspeople, and he quite enjoyed it as Jean, his worries about his current situations gone for that magical moment. As he left, he gave his daughter a small token, hidden behind the Christmas tree in the house, a reminder that some part of him would always be with her.

On the day of the ball Desmond dressed in his finest formal regalia; pearl-white gloves paired with his black overcoat and pristine suit. His hair was, for once, tied down with an elaborate ribbon that matched his glasses. The Duke of Montveil, this year’s host, had a reputation of being a stickler for proper tradition, and he was going to look every bit of the Viscount his father had been.

It was nearing eight as Desmond walked up to the Duke’s mansion, the grand house brightly lit with live chatter seeping out from the windows. The doorman verified his identity by the envelope and opened the gate to a world of luxurious decadence. As per its reputation, the ballroom was a sight to behold with crystal chandeliers draping from the ceiling, their light reflecting off the glass panes and casting lovely shadows on the walls. The assembled peers were wearing their finest as the occasion required; the luxury of it all was a picturesque scene. Desmond scanned the people for any sign of the Duke of Beldin. For whatever reason, he seemed to be absent, and Desmond let out a breath he had been unconsciously holding. A few more guests trickled in after he was admitted, and then the grandfather clock in the corner of the ballroom struck eight. The majestic doors closed with a booming sound. A man who carried himself with authority clambered onto a podium; all talk ceased as people swivelled their heads around to stare at him.

“Welcome, Lords and Ladies! The 69th annual Yule Ball has hereby begun. I am your host tonight; the Duke of Montveil. Thank you all for your attendance, and please, enjoy yourselves while you are here.”

“Lord Sycamore!”

Quite a few people gravitated around Desmond as soon as the Duke finished with his short speech. Desmond flinched involuntarily at the name, almost looking behind his back, expecting his father to be there. Some were old acquaintances of his father and some were relatively unknown to him, so after a round of handshakes and exchanges of names he first appropriately greeted the people he already knew, namely the Marquess of Rochdale, with a deep bow.

“Your Lordship, it is a great pleasure to see you again.”

“Oh ho ho, none of that stiffness, Desmond! You and I both know each other well enough anyways!”

He had almost forgotten; this man was also very easygoing for someone of his stance. The Marquess roped an arm around his shoulder and steered him towards the refreshment stands. They each snagged a cup of tea and made themselves comfortable round one of the tables that layered the sides of the ballroom.

“Are you quite alright, Desmond? The last time I saw you, you were pale as a sheet of paper and unconscious!”

“I’ve had better days, sir, but I’ll survive.”

“Good, good.” The Marquess was temporarily distracted by a passerby who greeted him. “And your work is going swimmingly well?”

“As much as I wish it to be, my stay in the hospital and my parents’ death has prevented me from delving deeper into the wonders of archaeology.”

There was a beat of silence as both men remembered the late Viscount and Viscountess Sycamore. Finally, the older lord placed a comforting hand on the younger man’s shoulder and said in a gruff voice, “It was a great tragedy. Police hasn’t found out who the perpetrator was, then?”

“Perpetrators, my Lord, and no they haven’t.” Desmond stopped himself from saying that they never will.

“Ineffective, the lot are! Ah, yes, Desmond my boy, I’ve been positively itching to say this: I have a very intriguing proposition that came through one of my business contracts, Mr Ahern.”

Desmond leaned towards him, curiosity piqued. “Go on.”

“You know the London Aerodome that was completed about two months ago? Mr Ahern was the primary sponsor of the project and he just asked me if I knew you, to which of course I said yes. He then asked me to inquire if you needed an airship, and if you did, he and some of the other contributors would see to it. I believe Mr Ahern has a great interest in archaeology, and though he said that he would love to see more historical data come to light the fact remains that you are well-known enough to promote the whole thing without being too conspicuous.”

“So it’s a win-win situation then. I get an airship, and Mr Ahern gets the publicity.” Desmond mused. Then the full impact of the subject hit him. “Wait, he said that he’d give me an airship? Those things are ridiculously expensive!”

“Yes, an airship, Desmond. Close your mouth before a fly finds itself down your throat. Now where was I? Oh, and he also said that he’d fund you for a full year or so if you choose to travel during the time.”

Desmond shook himself out of the previous dazed stance. “Maybe after this school year finishes. I’m still obligated to teach, after all. Still, please give Mr Ahern my sincere thanks and let him know I’ll acc—” he stumbled over his words as Celeste’s face popped up, reminding him about safety precautions. “Actually, I need to think over it. Will you please tell him that I will let him know when I decide on this matter? I promise it won’t take long.”

“Well, of course, but why? You love flying, my boy.”

“It’s just, well, I have to talk with my wife. It’s a big decision and she has every right to learn about this before I agree.”

The Marquess clapped a hand on his back as he let out a loud laugh, fishing around his pocket with the other hand. “Well said, well said my boy! Well then, here’s the company number; give them my name, and they’ll know what to do. Let us enjoy this ball for now. You haven’t been around for this party for ages since you were a little boy!”

The remainder of the ball was spent dancing awkwardly with some of the women and socializing. Although the ball had once been what its name meant with most attendees dancing with zeal, over the years it had slowly transformed into a more social get-together. Desmond met some other nobles with whom he was on familiar terms and politely exchanged cordial conversations with them. He also had to greet an influx of partygoers that were interested in the young and newly appointed Viscount, for unwittingly he had become a desirable figure in the aristocracy some time before. He had to show a number of young women his wedding ring to fend them off.

When midnight arrived, Desmond was tired enough to justify his leaving. He approached the Duke of Montveil, who was currently resting in one of the chairs with a flute of champagne in his hand.

“Your Grace, thank you for your gracious hospitality tonight.”

“Lord Sycamore! Thank you for the compliment, although I’m sure you’ve seen better parties than my humble one. Still, I hope you enjoyed yourself tonight.”

“Tonight was pleasant, thank you. But I haven’t been to such a festivity so luxurious for some years that I tired myself out sooner than I expected.”

“Ah, so you are leaving then?”

“Unfortunately yes. My apologies.”

“Now now, there’s no need to. Not all of us has boundless energy like the Earl of Reddington there!”

They both turned to look at the aforementioned Earl, who was well into his sixties and dancing to a jaunty tune with the wife of another Baron. Desmond couldn’t stop a chuckle at the scene. He excused himself once more and made his way out of the manor to where Raymond was waiting for him. He hadn’t made any new ‘friends’, but the prospect of an airship made up for that. Desmond’s lips morphed into a small smile.

The next day he called Celeste as soon as he had breakfast. She answered with an evident smile in her voice. “Desmond! Merry Christmas!”

“…Merry Christmas to you too, Cel. Listen, there’s something—”

“Oh, Desmond, Helen wants to say something. Come here, honey!”

Desmond smiled as an overexcited voice filtered through the speaker. “Daddy! Santa gave me something real big!”

“What did he give you?”

“Mr Mondy! Santa said Mr Mondy has a little bit of daddy in him, so I’ll always have daddy with me! He’s great!”

 The present he had left behind was a stuffed dolphin; he knew Helen’s fascination with marine animals and indulged her whenever he could. This time was no exception.

“That’s wonderful honey. Did Santa tell you anything else?”

“No, but I asked Santa to give daddy my love. It’s really big so you can’t miss it! Did you get it?”

Desmond felt a spark of guilt and gratitude arise in himself as he replied. “Y-Yes, honey. Daddy got your present. Can I-Can I talk to your mother? It’s really important.”

“What’s this thing that’s so important, love?” Celeste was back on the phone. Desmond took a deep breath before answering.

“I received an offer on an airship. Should I accept it?”

“An airship? Why pass up on such an offer? You love riding in one of those blimps— this is the chance to own one!”

“Yes, but, still… There’s Targent to think of. What if they try to sabotage the ship? Or shoot it down? With you two inside? It’s dangerous, Cel.”

“You’ll never get anywhere if you don’t take risks, Desmond. You of all people should know this! And at this rate, we’ll never be able to ride it before Targent is eliminated. Besides, it could be another escape route if the need arises. What’s to say it won’t be a help to us?”

Desmond pondered over this new possibility, though reserved about taking risks. Eventually he agreed with Celeste—the goods outweighed the bad in a way. He would call the company to talk about the airship.

On New Year’s Eve, the Professor nervously drummed on the desk with his finger as he held the receiver and dialed. The person on the other end picked up after a few rings.

“This is Ahern, CEO of Aetheren Inc.”

“Mr Ahern? My name is Desmond Sycamore, and I was told to call you by Lord Rochdale?”

“Lord Sycamore!” The man’s voice lightened considerably. “I was waiting for your call. So what’s the verdict?”

“I accept your offer. Thank you for the gracious gesture.”

Mr Ahern let out a squeak of happiness. The man continued to explain that he would be organizing the preparation for the airship personally, and he would like to hold a meeting when the design was finished. The Professor agreed without missing a beat; inwardly he was bouncing with excitement. He’d ridden in airships before, travelling to other countries on expeditions and short trips, and had been mesmerized with the sights and the feeling of freedom flight gave him. To own one was one of his wildest dreams that he had never expected to come true.

“Do you have any plans on next Monday? I’m planning to hold a small meeting then concerning our projects and advertisements.”

“I would be grateful if you included me in that meeting. Thank you again, Mr Ahern.”

As soon as the call ended, Desmond let a small smile appear on his face—he couldn’t wait for the next week to come.

January 7th rolled around soon enough, and Desmond was walking to a red-bricked building in London’s heart, wrapped up securely in his long overcoat. When he set foot in the lobby, the receptionist near the door recognized him right away and directed him to the elevator, saying that the meeting was to be held on the topmost floor at 10:00 a.m. It was obvious where the meeting was going to be held, considering that only one of the two offices were lit. A man in a pinstriped suit greeted him at the door.

“Lord Sycamore! It is a pleasure to see you here—the name’s Brackin Ahern.”

Desmond held out a hand to shake to the shorter man. “The pleasure is all mine, Mr Ahern. I’ve always wanted to fly, and you have realized that wild dream for me.” On an afterthought, he added some more words. “And please, I would appreciate it greatly if you call me ‘Professor’ than as a ‘Lord’, Mr Ahern.”

He was escorted to a seat near the one that was covered with files and paper, which the CEO cleared up before taking the seat himself. Some more people arrived, each bowing to the flustered Viscount and greeting him courteously while filling the seats around the circular table. The last person to enter closed the door behind him and the meeting commenced.

It was interesting to see the finer details of airships laid down so he could easily understand them. The dormant mechanic inside him delighted at the blueprints being passed around and explained, eager to explore more of the subject. The climax was when he was introduced to his would-be airship.

“She’s beautiful,” he breathed out, examining the features thoroughly with a faint smile on his lips. “What’s her name?”

“Ah, for that, we have left the slate blank for you to name her, Professor. What would you like her name to be like?”

“Me? Why, Mr Ahern, you have honoured me with your suggestions, but this one is the highest honour of them all.” Desmond unconsciously tapped the desk with his forefinger as he thought. “I’ll have to think about this more. Is it fine if I contact you when I think of a suitable name for this magnificent ship?”

“Of course, sir. Now about the retractable wings here…”

All things considered, the meeting went quite well, reflected the Professor as he returned to his own residence. The other benefactors were quite knowledgeable on the subject as much as the designers and engineers were, and he relished in the technical talk they got into. He’d learned a bit about mechanical engineering when he was young, even receiving a degree in that subject while he was still in Gressenheller, and the old fire burned again by the chance meeting. The local bookstore held a variety of tomes concerning the topic, so he bought some while he was out. He was so immersed in the information that he missed lunch and was only reminded by his butler when he came to call his Master for dinner.

They also talked about advertisements. Desmond came to an agreement on an interview; it was the only thing he had argued with the corporation. He refused to do anything with his family in the picture, and they had eventually both compromised and decided on a magazine interview.

“I think I’ll be naming her the Bostonius, after the word in Ancient Tongue that means freedom. What do you think, Mr Ahern?” A few more days had passed, and Desmond was on the phone again. Mr Ahern’s rather high tenor crackled out of the receiver.

“A splendid name! It certainly fits her. She’ll be ready in about three weeks, so until then, Professor Sycamore.”

—∮—

Desmond Sycamore was not an easily excited man; he would keep calm, collected in most situations bar the ones that involved Targent or his family. But as the day of the showcase drew closer he felt anticipation threaten to overcome his mind, the exhilaration running in his veins. On the date they had agreed upon to see the Bostonius make its debut, the ride to the London Aerodome was filled with silent excitement emanating from the professor.

“It’s good to see that you’re so happy, Master,” Raymond remarked as he pulled the car into the parking lot.

“How couldn’t I, Raymond? An airship, the very thing I have been dreaming of for years! Just think of the things we could do, explore new regions and places no human has never set foot in before.”

Desmond’s euphoria grew when he entered the Dome with Aetheren employees leading the way. All kinds of people were bustling inside, following the signposts that popped up randomly from the ground. He was led to a more secluded part where the CEO and other benefactors were waiting for him in a small group. A flight of stairs jutted out behind them, and when they climbed it to look at the thing beyond it, the professor’s breath was taken away.

There the Bostonius sat with all its grandeur displayed for all to see. The bright orange craft with its two headlights was dwarfed by the enormous white balloon over it. Desmond was walking in a trance as the CEO pointed out its various features to him, including the wings, propellers that worked while in water and he gasped as the balloon detached itself from the vessel leaving the orange flight alone. The inside was even more impressive; a luxurious cockpit with some stairs leading to it, a master bedroom with two small ones nearby and a place for loading cargo.

“This…this is amazing,” exhaled Desmond, completely enthralled by the ship. “I can’t thank you enough for all this, Mr Ahern.”

“Oh, the pleasure is all mine, Professor Sycamore,” smiled Ahern. “If you wish, we’ve prepared the Bostonius for her virgin flight today.”

“I would be happy to take her up. Thank you for your suggestion.”

Ahern directed a brigade of mechanics on board as they made final preparations for the upcoming flight. Desmond ambled over to the pilot’s seat and silently watched the person there manage the controls, unconsciously memorising the controllers. His fingers itched in anticipation of what was going to happen a few seconds from now. At last, the departure signal came, and the Bostonius rose up into the London air.

The flight was slow and pleasant; it seemed as if Ahern was aiming to present the luxuriousness of the ship to him. Desmond noticed that it was strangely quiet in the cabin.

“The engine—it’s very quiet for an airship.”

“Engineering, Professor. Her engine is the state-of-the-art one we’ve been developing, and the Bostonius is the first ship we applied the design to.”

They set down after a few more minutes of stasis in the air. Desmond’s ecstasy faded a little as he turned to the CEO with a serious expression.

 “So, Mr Ahern, about the upcoming interview…”

Ahern had secured a brief interview with The World Times subdivision magazine about Desmond’s airship the following Friday. The talk itself wasn’t too revealing about the details of the airship and centred around general discussion about flying and the generosity of the Aetheren Incorporation as per Desmond's request, but the photographers along with the makeup artists were basically drooling over the Professor during the shooting session. It didn’t help that the majority of them were women.

“Oooooh, stand still, Professor! Just a little more foundation there!”

“There, you look even more charming than before!”

While the actual photos took only half an hour, and the interview even less, the time he spent behind the screen easily surpassed the two combined. By the time he was done washing off the makeup he vowed to never do anything including taking pictures with things applied to his face. Though he hadn’t worn a lot of cosmetics ( _You don’t even need much makeup, they’ll just reduce your natural attractiveness!_ ) it had still been a strenuous experience.

The February issue of the magazine had Desmond’s face on the cover, and said man was barraged with questions the very next day at Oxshire. His face glowed pink with embarrassment as his students jokingly talked about the coverage, spanning from the photos, the actual interview ( _Who knew you had such a passion for flying, Professor_.) to some choice words about dating preferences ( _I would’ve asked him out if he hadn’t married! Oh come on, he’s in hearing distance, shut up you bloody idiot. Then it’s time to confess my undying love to him!_ ). This kept up for a few days until the Professor himself put an ultimatum down and declared that another mention of the magazine would have that student ousted from his classes. It was much more quiet after that.

Quite some days passed before he started to think of defence mechanisms for the aircraft. Insecure of his methods, he sought out Raymond and asked him his opinion, for the old butler was an expert in covering up footprints, metaphorical or not.

“Well, Master, you’ll think of something as always. Use that big brain of yours so that she doesn’t fall into the wrong hands.”

Raymond had constantly supported him, even when he had been caught in a deadly chase between the archaeologists he had been helping out and Targent. It had been his first real encounter with the group as a budding scholar, and Raymond had saved the lot of them by appearing out of the blue and throwing enough gas bombs to knock out a tiger and some more. The ragtag group had made it out unhurt but shaken.

As February slipped into March and then April, Desmond added some new features to his beloved airship himself; a harpoon on the left wing, some smoke bombs for escaping and heat-dissuading decoys for IR homing missiles. One could never be prepared enough, he reasoned. But for all the arrangements he made, he couldn’t bring himself to add weapons to the Bostonius. Whenever he thought about the ways it might be used it made him feel faintly sick.


	4. Undercover Discoveries

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The year before the events of Last Specter. How did Desmond come to know about the Golden Garden?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the late update! I was involved in a car accident(and went to the ER for the first time in my life)&had a long bout of writer's block. I'll try to have more frequent updates from now on. Once again, I'm so sorry!

Another school year had passed, and Desmond was in desperate need of a break. He had done his best with the students that year despite the events he’ had to endure, and after he gave out the final exam results and their overall credit he was quite spent. The next school year, he vowed, would be spent in solitude with peace. He was planning for a year with only teaching and researching to do. And avoiding Targent. With those things in mind, he went back to reading about the unidentifiable relics of Britain. He was sure that they were some part of the Azran ruins, but he couldn't find the logical background for his assumptions. It wasn't until he went over the pictures of the unidentified ruins some weeks later did he notice that the lines on the stone walls resembled letters when placed in a certain way; more specifically, the alphabet of the Azran.

“Letters,” he breathed, piecing together the drawings. “The words here, ‘Our Garden will shine with its beauty forever’…so the Golden Garden is actually a relic of the Azran.”

There were four places in total that he put together to form the words. Desmond wasted no time in memorizing the names and locations of the four, then let out a groan when he remembered that all four of them were on privately owned lands. Considering the fact that he knew only two out of the four men, he should probably get started on some letters. Of course, traveling to the two he knew was in order too.

Desmond personally visited the two houses he was familiar with over the next few days, respectively on the south and north side of England. The first request was received well, with the owner of the house readily agreeing to his plans and arranging a place for him to stay. They agreed on a date, and the man promised to provide transportation. The second one was, however, wrought with complications. He first had to throw off some Targent agents trailing him—how they knew he was moving, he didn't know, but he had to disguise himself several times before he lost them completely. Then he had to convince Emerson, the landowner, to let him conduct an investigation there.

“Well, how can I be sure that your investigation will destroy anything there? I ain't keen on ending up in a place full of rubble, Professor.”

That kind of dialogue went back and forth for over half an hour, each growing increasingly more stubborn until Emerson suddenly caved. They parted on civil terms after arranging dates and lodgings, and when Desmond left the estate to return to his house, he was sure that there was something else to the man’s behaviour that didn't sit right with him. He just didn't know why. Sure, he knew that from the few times he met him Emerson was unpleasant, but the sudden change in demeanour was unnerving.

He received letters from the other two the next week. He would have to meet them on separate dates to confirm when he would be visiting them, but for now, being granted access was enough for him. Once more feeling marginally happier, Desmond set out to pack for the trip he would soon have to make.

The next day, as he had previously agreed with the man, he set out for the first site that was closest to his house in the morning with Raymond. It took only a few hours by train to get there, and when he got off it, the Sun was already beating down with fervour. A carriage was waiting for him at the station, and it whisked him to a small shack near the cluster of abandoned ruins presumed to be Azran. They briefly stopped there to unload their luggage, and then continued on to the main house.

“Welcome, Professor Sycamore! I hope your ride here has been comfortable.”

The proprietor, a Mr Bolton, was a boisterous man with a deep voice and a moustache that could put forests to shame. Desmond schooled his expression into a polite smile, ignoring the sudden need to let out a laugh; he’d been rather preoccupied when he last visited him, and the man really hadn't changed that much over the years. He followed Bolton into the spacious manor for a rather late luncheon. Bolton asked about the ruins over lunch, but didn't seem to be invested in the subject, only asking general questions and refusing to delve further into details. Desmond was slightly disappointed, but kept his composure throughout the meal. When they were done, he and Raymond once again were driven to the site by carriage.

“Master asks sir to investigate freely, and if time allows, to visit him to talk about the findings here. The pantry is stocked, but if you need anything else Edgar will come when you ring the bell over the well.” The carriage drove away on that note, leaving Desmond and Raymond to unpack their meagre belongings along with a load of excavation tools and start looking around. After about an hour of inspecting slabs of stones with no results, Desmond finally located the lone slab with _‘with_ _its’_ written on it, then made a beeline to the largest slab of stone around, having spotted the Azran words on it.

“ _Water is stronger than fire, fire than earth, earth than wind, wind than water. Solve this riddle and awaken our Garden_ ,” he translated. “So this is some kind of a puzzle. I wonder…hmm.”

He took a closer look at the stone, thinking that there must be some kind of clue on it.  Desmond brushed a hand over the surface while simultaneously applying pressure, and started when a cylinder popped out. It was engraved with drawings of waves and rain clouds; there was no mistaking the meaning of the carved symbols. The other three cylinders were discovered in quick succession, and the Professor rearranged them as the slab said. A grinding sound reverberated around the area when the final one slid into place with a click, as the ground moved beneath his feet. Desmond jumped back as the bricks under him slid apart to reveal a staircase leading downwards. He marvelled at the idiocy of the archaeologists who discovered the place before and turned to Raymond, intending to ask him to stay behind.

“You’re not going down there without me, Master.” Raymond turned down his proposal before he even started talking. When he started to protest, Raymond smoothly cut him off. “Who knows what might be waiting downstairs? If you are injured, and nobody's there to help you, what will you do then? I will go with you.”

Desmond gave up trying to persuade his butler; the man was more stubborn than he was when it came to his safety, which was saying something. The duo went back to the shack to grab some supplies and then descended into the hidden ruins, both full with anticipation and excitement with Raymond’s additional worries about his Master on the side.

The darkness briefly engulfed them as they reached the bottom. Desmond lighted a torch with practiced ease, and the light showed a narrow passage leading to somewhere deeper. Stopping for a moment to enjoy the significantly cooler air below, the Professor walked forward with caution, for traps were known to materialize quite often in Azran-related places. Thankfully, nothing stopped them from advancing, and they walked until the road diverged into two. A golden plaque hung on the wall directly in front of them. Desmond passed the torch to Raymond and stepped up to the plaque, translating it on the go.

“The sun shall be your light,” it read. Desmond frowned— could it be a reference to the east path, where the sun rises? He took the torch from Raymond and turned a scrutinizing eye on the surrounding walls. After shining the light on everything, he took a second look at the passages themselves, and realized that they were designed to look like arches. On top of them were drawings of the sun on the right, and the moon on the left. Desmond took a sharp breath; if he had followed his original idea he might have been led into a trap, or whatever the Azran had planned for failures. He walked down the right path with Raymond right behind, and continued until a second split path turned up with another puzzle engraved on a plaque. This pattern continued for quite a while—he’d lost track of the time—until they ran into a dead end, with words and strangely enough, numbers etched into the stone like the plaques before.

“Another puzzle?” Desmond sighed; but when he got close enough to translate the words, it became evident that his search had come to an end. A piece of something was embedded in the rock right underneath the words.

“ _‘_ _The four winged sleepers shall lead thee to our Garden’_ … What’s this?” He picked up the thing in the stone. It was a strange-looking artefact, and he had no idea what it used to be, or what the material it was made out of. While he turned it over in his hands, contemplating its use, Raymond chose that moment to remind him that they had a lot of backtracking to do. Desmond stored the artefact away in a small sack, wrote down the words on his notebook and followed his butler up to the surface.

They emerged from the ground to the view of the moon sinking below the horizon for another day, with the sun just around the corner. Desmond was shocked; they had been in the ruins for at least twelve hours, maybe even more, and he hadn't noticed the time until now. The fatigue that had piled up, which had been only suppressed by the excitement, came crashing down on him, and he stumbled. Raymond steadied him despite being clearly tired himself.

“You should get some rest, Master. I shall reseal the passage.”

When Desmond started to ask him just how he was going to achieve that, the tiles began to move on their own accord, covering their tracks perfectly. It looked as if the passage had never existed.

“…Well, that problem solved itself. Raymond, it would be best if we both retire for now.”

He had been more tired that he had thought he was, thought Desmond the next time he opened his eyes. Apparently, he had passed out almost immediately after collapsing on the bed without changing his clothes; he felt hot, sticky and generally uncomfortable. The summer, along with its humidity, had never really agreed with him. After taking a quick detour to the shower, he noticed a familiar smell that brought back memories of his days at Gressenheller.

“Raymond, is that gypsy pie you're baking?” Without waiting for an answer, he wandered over to the kitchen. Raymond was pulling out a golden-brown pie from the oven.

“Your nose tells the truth, Master, though I didn't expect you to remember the smell from almost twenty years ago.”

“Raymond, I lived off your gypsy pies for over a week when I was in university. Of course I remember it. Mother had to ban them when she caught wind of my eating habits.”

Desmond almost inhaled the pie when it cooled down. It wasn't ideal breakfast material, or lunch material for that matter, but he enjoyed it nevertheless. He had had a massive sweet tooth those days, and it persisted until now albeit being much smaller than then.

For the next few days, Desmond poked around the ruins just to be sure he hadn't overlooked anything. He continued on to the next ruin in upper Scotland; he only had a week before the fall semester started, so he aimed to finish at least half his investigations of the ruins.

The second one was similar to the first one in many ways, with two notable stele that each held a riddle and the words _‘beauty forever’_. The one with the riddle opened itself up to reveal a trapdoor beneath with more words and complicated lines on its surface. Apparently, this one had a maze as a challenge, and the lines there formed the first part of the labyrinth. Desmond painstakingly copied the map onto his notebook and opened the hatch, release a gust of cold air. He lowered himself into the hole, this time holding his butler back when he made to follow him.

“Raymond, there aren't any stairs here. I need you to stay here and pull me up when I return. I promise to not die, so don't worry about me.”

“Don't promise things you can't keep, Master, but I believe in you. Please stay safe.”

Desmond lighted his lantern once he straightened himself, illuminating a corridor similar to the drawing on the hatch. He smiled; this one wouldn't take so long to complete.

He found out a good five hours later that this was not what he expected. Thrice he met dead ends and had to turn back, and had to disable or avoid a substantial amount of traps scattered throughout the entire structure. He almost wished for Raymond’s constant presence at his back before gritting his teeth and shouldering on. Four times, he had found a new section of the maze carved into the wall, and he was sure the part he was currently in was the last sector. As if to prove his theory correct, a faint glow could be seen ahead. Thinking that it was his destination that lay there, he ran forward only to jump back when the floor suddenly stopped existing. Clutching at his hammering heart, Desmond held his lantern up to shine on the whole floor, which turned out to be a giant puzzle in itself. There was writing on the floor right in front of the abyss.

“ _The final puzzle shall lead you to safety, while danger lies behind_ ,” he stopped there, alerted by a grinding sound. The path he had come through was separating from the squares around the place where he stood, leaving him alienated on an island-like space with no way to escape. Desmond returned to deciphering the letters with his heart in his mouth. “‘ _Make a straight path by moving the floor. Fail to do so, and you will rot here forever._ ’ So how do I move the stones?…Oh.” A stone pedestal was in front of him, and on that pedestal was the layout of the floor with blocks that protruded from the surface. They moved when he pulled on them with the ones on the floor going at a much slower pace, but surely following his movements. Desmond automatically began to draw the formulation in his head. This was a time for logical thinking, not for panicking.

An hour later, he had realigned the blocks to form a giant passageway in the middle of the chasm. The pedestal disappeared into the ground, leaving him free to advance. At the end of the path, he saw that the lights he had seen were actually sunlight filtering through crystals in the ceiling, tinged with red. It was probably because of the setting sun—after all, he had entered the maze in the morning. More than enough time had passed since then for him to see the sun setting now.

Ahead was another set of Azran letters and numbers with another piece of an object embedded in the wall. Desmond whipped out his notebook to translate them.

“ _‘_ _Where our roads converge, our paradise lies, waiting for the Traveller.’_ So the person who gathers all the clues must be the traveller. But what could these objects form?” Desmond wondered, bringing out the sack that contained the first item he had found. He still wasn't sure about the final formation of the thing, but putting that problem aside, he started his search for the exit. The place was bound to have a way out close by—he was sure that the Azran wouldn't make him go through the labyrinth again. Soon enough he found a small tunnel big enough for him to pass, and he only had to walk for a short while until he was blocked by a dead end. Groaning, Desmond felt the wall in front of him in hopes of finding a way out. When he found nothing, he turned to return to the cavern, and stepped on a small rock protruding from the ground. While he silently cursed the thing, hissing in pain, the wall in front of him parted to reveal the place he had first entered the maze. Raymond was peering down through the hole, and their eyes met. He was out of the underground in seconds.

“Was your search fruitful, Master?” Raymond asked once they were back at their temporary lodgings. Desmond flashed a tired smile at him.

“It was. Although I’ve received enough surprises down there to scare people off from researching the entire race forever, I now have the second piece of the riddle and the item.” He relaxed into his chair, missing Raymond’s eyes narrowing in a suspicious manner.

“Exactly what kind of surprises are we talking about here, Master?”

Desmond realized his mistake a bit too late. “Ah, it was nothing—”

_“_ _Master.”_

In the end, he wound up telling Raymond about the times he had come dangerously close to dying in the labyrinth. Despite him toning down the actual level of horror they presented, Raymond made Desmond promise to take him the next time they encountered such a setting. Desmond reluctantly agreed; after all, they were scheduled to be at the next site some weeks later, and hopefully he had forgotten by then. He had to move his investigations aside in favour of returning to his post at Oxshire, once again back to teaching.

August slid into September, then October, and one particular day found Desmond on a train, travelling to the last site he planned to visit. He was sure that this one would be the final that could lead him to the place where the Golden Garden existed. Three days would be enough to crack whatever puzzle the Azran threw at him this time. Being absorbed in his compiled research, he failed to notice the clearly suspicious men clad in navy uniforms passing by his compartment, even though he'd had to evade Targent men on his way to the third ruins.

The fourth site was at the west end of Britain, with the cool sea wind blowing through the lands. Desmond, with Raymond trailing behind, hurried to the the ruins as soon as he unpacked in a room he'd been given. It was the same like the other three before; a cluster of stone artefacts with the Azran letters on some of them. Once again, there was a riddle written on the largest one, and when he solved it the entire structure of the ruins changed, the ground rumbling with the tremors it produced. While he regained his balance, the ruins revealed a set of stairs leading downwards, though these, unlike the former ones, looked like they had been recently flooded, judging from the dampness of the stone. Desmond went down the stairs with trepidation, wondering about what could have possibly drenched the stairs.

“At least this time nothing tried to harm us,” he sighed after two hours of walking around. They still hadn't found out what caused the caves to drip water like an underwater path. However, as they progressed, a roaring sound kept getting closer. Desmond wondered what in the world it could be—until he turned around a corner and stopped dead in his tracks. There was a literal waterfall in front of him, complete with foaming water at the bottom, and it was separated from the place where he stood by a narrow strip of nothingness.

“Master, be careful!” Desmond was pulled back by Raymond seconds before he almost stepped into the void. So the narrow strip was actually wider, he realized as he watched the few rocks disturbed by his misplaced steps crumble and fall into the abyss. He searched for something that might hold a puzzle to solve the waterfall problem, and found a pedestal with something resembling a joystick and a drawing of some blocks and words on it. They indicated that he was supposed to block the stream of water by operating the stick. Desmond noticed that the ceiling looked like the drawing, as the symbols on both of them matched, and successfully moved them to block the constant stream of water, diverting it to show the path beneath. A new walkway materialized by the path elongating and jutting out to where he stood.

“This was almost too easy,” he muttered, continuing onto the new road. He found the last set of letters and numbers with the final piece of the mysterious object; he pulled out his bag with the other three from his knapsack and set to match them up. After a few minutes of puzzling over the pieces, he finally moulded them into what seemed like an appropriate shape, which resembled an ocarina. There were latches on the side, and when he fastened them, the seams disappeared as if it had never been split into four. His curiosity satisfied, Desmond now translated the words. They made a little more sense this time when paired with the last one.

“‘ _The Guardian shall deem the worthy seeker when time comes_.’ The Guardian? Just who is this entity?”

Desmond hastily returned to the surface with his notebook in hand, intent on looking into the meaning of the words more seriously. As such, his brain was focused on that one thing, and he was completely unprepared for the sudden assault on his body, rough hands grabbing for the items in his possession. Only Raymond's quick reaction saved him from being robbed of both the knapsack and the notebook. Desmond scrambled to his feet from where he had been knocked down. Facing him were four Targent men, two of which were equipped with clubs. Raymond stepped in front of him as if to protect him. Desmond knew better, and he prayed that the opposing men wouldn't see the smoke bombs inside his butler’s jacket.

“How did you find me? And what do you want?” He called out instead to divert their attention. The leader, or at least the oldest member, instantly responded with a strong American accent.

“You never knew you had a traitor beside you, Professor? How disappointing. And as for what we want… isn't it obvious? The thing on your back and that notebook, of course. Our boss isn't blind, after all.”

“Traitor?” Then it hit him. “Emerson? And your boss, its Bronev, isn't it?” He saw Raymond getting ready and tensed his body himself. His butler discreetly started a countdown while the Targent man spoke.

“Yes on one count, no on the other. The big boss is too busy for this trivia, so our bossman took it upon himself to do this mission. We’re gonna get a huge bonus if we get this job done right!”

Raymond's fingers counted down to zero on that note, and Desmond twisted away from the blast radius as his butler threw the bombs. He almost succeeded in getting away as the four panicked, and probably would have escaped completely if it were not for another person jumping him unexpectedly, sending them both crashing into the ground.

“Get off-!” They were quite evenly matched by strength, but the assailant had the element of surprise with him, letting him gain the upper hand. He ripped the notebook out of Desmond’s hands and scarpered, leaving the professor dishevelled and disoriented. Raymond found him in that state and took him to safety where he could pull himself together.

“Master, are you hurt anywhere?” Raymond raked a concerned eye over him while Desmond stared off into space. They had taken refuge in a cheap hotel near the station; they didn't dare go back to the site right now, even if they had left almost everything there.

“Just some bruises that would heal by themselves, but my notes…stolen. I have them committed to memory, but the mere fact that Targent has their slimy hands on it is worrying.”

Raymond apologized profusely at those words. Desmond waved him off, asking for a pen and some paper for a letter.

“I’ll have to make it sound like I had to return urgently,” he muttered under his breath. “At least I had the sense to keep all my other research material in my bag—Raymond, I need another bag; they'll notice if I have the same one.”

“Understood, Master.” His butler was gone in seconds, leaving Desmond to finish penning his admittedly short letter, stating that he had to leave early and thus left his possessions in Raymond's and a friend’s care. He sighed as he fashioned a rather crude disguise out of whatever he could lay his hands on, and in under an hour transformed himself into a man in his fifties. Raymond led the way to the estate, both keeping an eye out for danger, and cleared out their entire luggage in ten minutes flat while Desmond explained the situation to the irritated landlord, wording his sentences so that the man let the entire thing slide. They cleared the premises as fast as they could, opting to take the train back rather than spend the night anywhere nearby.

“So someone else is moving instead of Bronev. Interesting, though quite unexpected. We’ll have to hurry if we want to stay ahead of them.”

Desmond organized the phrases and numbers he found on a sheet of paper with the ocarina on one side. He moved them around until the words formed some sort of a poem.

_“_ _The four winged sleepers shall lead thee to our Garden,_

_Shrouded by mist, it rests, awaiting the Guardian and the Traveller,_

_And the Guardian shall deem the worthy seeker when time comes._

_Where our roads converge, our paradise lies, waiting for the Traveller.”_

The hints were absurdly obvious; he only had to find somewhere with a healthy amount of mist— he was a bit unsure of the meaning of the roads converging. The first sentence was probably referring to the other poem that was related to the Golden Garden, though he had no idea what the third row meant. There had been nothing related to the guardian of the Garden until now.

“Raymond,” he called out, “find every town famous for its mist in Britain and make a list, will you?”

After receiving confirmation from his butler, Desmond turned to the paper, intent on finding an answer. He would solve this puzzle however long it took. With that though in mind, he pulled a huge tome on the Azran onto his desk.

Five hours later, he had drunk his way through an entire pot of coffee and another pot of black tea, but he was no closer to the solution than five hours before. Blinded by frustration, he drew a big “X” on the paper he had been staring at and discarded it, only to pick it up seconds later.

“Wait… The converging roads…”

The roads converge. The centre on the ‘X’ is a dot where the lines in the letter converges. Desmond almost smacked himself for that oversight, and drew a cross between the places he went to on a map. There was only one point where the lines met. Raymond appeared at his side with his results right then and Desmond rifled through them searching for a fit with his own discovery.

“There! There’s only one town that fits the poem here.”

“Misthallery, Master?”

“Yes. We must prepare for departure—”

“Not so fast, sir.” Raymond cut him off with a firm tone, and Desmond was dragged to his bed while he weakly protested that he was fine, this was more important than his health or sleep, and didn’t Raymond know that he had strived for this clue?

“Targent wouldn’t have reached the conclusion as fast as you. Master. Also, it would be foolish to weaken yourself like this if they were to show up. For now, rest.”

Desmond tried to complain, but due to his lack of consciousness the moment his head hit the pillow, it was impossible to do so. He soon fell into a deep sleep, finally relaxing after all the excitement he’d gone through the last twenty-four hours.


	5. Archaeological Winter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The behind story of the Last Specter. Who found the remains of the ancient civilization?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, sorry everyone! School just started and I've been swamped with projects, but on the other side I've started Tumblr. You can find me at @cottonyst, Where Cotton Flies. Feel free to message me if you wish!

Misthallery was, as its name suggested, a town of mist. Surrounded by mountains on every side, with water canals separating it from the close lands, its namesake added a sense of mystery to the general feeling of the place. Desmond was in a carriage—his car was not for driving on rough terrain—and rapidly approaching the bridge that led to the town.

“We’ve arrived, Master,” called Raymond from where he held the reins of the horses. Desmond stepped out of the carriage and made his way to the bridge, but stopped short when he caught sight of a sign barring him from crossing it.

“Misthallery is closed to visitors until further notice. We are sorry for the inconvenience: The Misthallery Police. What? But why?” He searched for a possible indicator of the reason why, and spotted a girl making her way to the bridge.

“Excuse me, young miss! May I ask something?”

The girl turned to him with a mischievous smile. “Yeah?”

“Do you live here?” She nodded at his question; Desmond pressed on. “Then, can you tell me why no visitors are allowed in?”

“Oh, that. The mayor’s been found dead, so Chief Jakes closed off the town. He said that it was a serious matter? His face went all funny when he said that.”

“The mayor’s dead?” Desmond was shocked; nothing like that had shown up in his brief search on the town. At his obvious surprise, the girl elaborated that it happened the night before, so he couldn't have known.

“Mr Barde wasn't all that popular, so the Chief says that someone might've offed him. And there's all the money problems.”

Desmond groaned. It was disheartening to come all the way here only to turn around, not knowing when he would be able to return—he couldn’t wait it out even if he wanted to. He said his thanks to the girl and made to get on his carriage again when she grabbed his sleeve.

“Hey, mister, d’you want me to tell you when it's all over? You look really desperate.”

Pleasantly surprised, Desmond accepted the offer. “That would be most helpful. Is there anything I can do for you in return, miss-?”

“Marilyn, and the next time you come here promise me you’ll buy something from my stall at the market. Deal?” She stuck out her hand, and then added an afterthought. “Oh, and I didn't catch your name.”

“My name is Desmond Sycamore, and gladly.” He gave her his telephone number and asked her to tell nobody of this conversation; he knew Targent would be searching for any sign of his involvement, and this would be one giant arrow pointing to him if they knew. Besides, he had a place to visit in a few days…

“…Mother. Father.” His voice was hoarse as he set down the flowers he had bought at the feet of the two headstones. He was standing in the Sycamore family graveyard and the two newest additions—which shouldn't have been there for at least another ten years—brought a bitter taste to his mouth. “It's been a year. I’m sorry; I should've come here more frequently.”

Words tumbled from his mouth as he rambled on about himself, how he was ahead of Targent for once. Desmond's voice steadily became shakier as he told his parents about how Helen successfully baked scones with her mother just yesterday, and that they were faring well, albeit missing England and in Helen’s case, her grandparents.

“C-Celeste told me that I’m being an idiot, that T-Targent would find out anyway and t-they would be safer with me, in England. But I just-I can't! The last two times, B-Bronev didn't care if I was ‘Hershel’ or not.”

He fell to his knees as tears clouded over his eyes. “What should I do? Am I-Am I doing more harm to them? I-I don’t know what to do!”

A warm hand pressed down between his shoulders. Desmond looked up with watery eyes to see Raymond smiling down at him with a certain sadness mingled with firm belief.

“Whatever your choice, Master, they would have supported you for your reason in doing so. You have done your best to keep them safe. Master Jonathan would have been proud of you, and Mistress Verity, even more so.”

Desmond wiped away his tears and stood up, voice still a bit wobbly. “Thank you, Raymond. For everything.”

Raymond did that exaggerated bow of his. “Glad to be of service.”

“We’ll bring them back after this mystery is solved,” he decided. “Targent should be distracted enough from me and them by then.” He turned to the two graves. “I’ll make you proud, Mother, Father. I’ll protect them to the end of my life.”

A week passed since that failed visit. Desmond kept himself updated on Misthallery’s status via newspaper and Raymond's irregular scouting. He had, at first, tried to find another way in, but soon found out that he would have to utilize his airship or swim across the river and climb a cliff. Both options were rather hard, if not impossible to do, so he resigned to relying on indirect information collection. Several additional days went by without any indication that the situation was getting better, and he was on the verge of forcing his way in when he heard the telephone ring in his study. The professor was there in a flash, hoping to hear Marilyn’s chipper voice to filter through the receiver. He was not disappointed.

“Hey, mister Sycamore! I heard the Chief is opening the town up again tomorrow. Are you gonna come here then?”

Desmond's heart leaped; finally, a lead. “Of course, Marilyn. Thank you for telling me this.”

“No problem!” The call ended on a happy note, with Marilyn reminding him of his promise. Desmond immediately called for his butler to prepare for his trip tomorrow. Hopefully he would be able to get a grasp on the exact location of the Garden if he officially receives permission to thoroughly investigate the whole town.

The next day saw Desmond going to Misthallery as fast as he could on a carriage. He was a man on a mission he sought to accomplish before others took his chance away. When the bridge, now without the sign, came into view, he had to restrain himself from jumping off in his haste to reach the town. In swift paces, he crossed the wooden, rickety bridge into the mouth of Misthallery. He spotted a boy lurking near a map of the town and walked over, intent on asking him about the mayor of the town.

“Young man? If I may ask you something?”

“Huh? Me?” He scratched his head, and then shrugged. “Yeah, I guess so.”

“Excellent. Where can I find the mayor of this town?”

“You mean Mr Triton? He lives across the rope-bridge and left of the crossroads.” The boy stared at him some more and snapped his fingers, apparently having remembered something. “Hey, wait. D’you know Marilyn?”

“That I do. Why do you ask, young man?”

The boy triumphantly pointed at his hair. “Marilyn told me to point a man with bread hair towards the market when he comes by. That must be you!”

“B-Bread hair…” Desmond was mortified, but let it slide. He thanked to boy and resumed his walk, trying to look unfazed by the boy’s words.

He came across another set of bridges, one pointing towards the market and one towards the town. After a moment of deliberation, he decided to head to the town first and check whether the mayor was available or not. There would be time to visit the market later on.

Desmond headed over to the moderately big manor that peeked out from behind the lush greenery. As he strode over the stepping-stones, he sent a surprised glance at the car neatly parked in the garage—how it got there was a mystery considering the two, no three bridges he had had to cross to get there. He cringed as the answer hit like a hammer to his head; there actually was another way in that he had failed to find. The possibility of someone stumbling across him was rather high, but it was something he had overlooked—a lost opportunity. When he rang the doorbell, an elderly man with gentle features answered it in a heartbeat.

“Welcome to the Triton residence. I am the butler of the household, Doland Noble. How may I help you?”

“My name is Desmond Sycamore. I believe I have found something of great archaeological importance, and I hope to discuss this matter with Mr Triton.”

“Ah. Unfortunately, Master Triton has left for a meeting with the Chief of Police. He will be back in three hours. If you wish, I shall ask Mistress Triton for permission to use the parlour.”

The professor was disappointed, but he took it in stride. After all, he had a promise to keep, and gentlemen always kept their promises. He bade goodbye to the butler and trekked back to the crossroad again, where more people were out, since it was a typical Sunday morning. Wanting to avoid getting caught up in the general hubbub, he ambled by the lively chatter of the townspeople and made his way to the rickety bridge.

Desmond crossed the bridge to the market to see two elderly people squabbling over something he couldn't see, but by the sound of them, he was sure they were siblings. His heart broke a little when he thought of his own little brother, the brother he had tried so hard to protect—and failed in various ways. He should've been there when the archaeology-fixated friend of his died, when the love of his life died in that explosion and properly reacted to the mongrels who dared to touch him six years ago. It had been terrifying when he'd seen Hershel in the hospital, unconscious and severely injured, and so soon after he became a professor just like him.

“Master?” Raymond's Scottish brogue brought him out of his reverie. Desmond blinked and focused on where he was going. The noise indicated that he was definitely going in the right direction, and he was led into a bright place full of shoppers and sellers alike, some haggling and some looking at products while the seller chatted them away. Strangely, the people operating the stalls were mostly children. Were there no adults here?

“Mister Sycamore!”

He turned his attention to where his name was called out. Marilyn was there, with her wild hair and bright expression.

“Marilyn. It’s good to see you in good health, but, er, I was a bit distracted with your comment about my hair.”

“Oh yeah! Sorry ’bout that, the only thing I could remember was your name and hair. Anyways— you promised, right? We have fresh apples, oranges, or any kind of food you would like!”

Desmond spent some time bantering with the energetic girl. She was shrewd, with brilliant ways of subtly steering someone into buying something. It had been quite a while since he had been at a market himself, so the change of surroundings was refreshing. Suitably refreshed, he decided to look around the town some more since he still had an hour left until he could meet Triton. He found his way to the crossroad and took a right turn this time, passing by a library that somehow reminded him of his old primary school. The further he went, more water canals made an appearance. Lost in the scenery, he had no idea he was heading into the forest. So, naturally, when he was jumped by a squad of unexpected policemen, he went down, caught unawares. A man with an impressive collection of fat around his midriff approached the struggling professor.

“Yer that Sycamore guy from London, aren’t yeh? Yer under arrest.”

“How dare you!” Desmond stopped resisting at the smug voice of the man, obviously the Chief of Police. His own voice dropped to project cold fury. “I am Viscount Desmond Theodore Sycamore, and you have no right to impede me like this. The privilege of the peers decree that peers of the Realm be free from arrest in civil cases, and you have no evidence of a misdeed perpetrated by me for criminal detention. The court shall see to this appalling misconduct!”

“Th-The peerage?” The man looked fearful now; Desmond grimly smiled. As he had expected, this supposed ‘Chief’ was a coward in front of far greater powers. He shook the constables off and stood up, dusting himself off and smoothing out his suit. Just then, a shadow detached from behind the mountain of a man, clapping a hand on the Chief’s shoulder.

“Well, well, professor, we meet again.”

“You…!” Desmond almost snarled, glaring at his former redheaded assailant. He wished for nothing more than to be able to make the man feel what he had gone through over a year ago, when the man almost killed him.

“Yes, me.” The man smirked. “You know, you should've expected this and be prepared before you came here with no backup, professor. Look around; there's no one to save you here!”

Desmond glanced around from where he stood. Constables cut off all possible escape routes, and the two in front of him were formidable opponents themselves. But he had a few tricks up his sleeve himself. He saw Raymond signalling from the top of one of the trees (how he even got up there, he didn’t know), and smirked, crouching down.

“I wouldn’t say that I’m cornered, per se.”

The area exploded in white gas the moment he said those words. Desmond sprang up, vaulting over the panicked wall of the police force and raced straight to the bridge. After some minutes, Raymond strolled out of the forest now filled with white smoke.

“They’ve gone in the opposite direction.” The man informed him like this was a perfectly normal, daily occurrence. Desmond slowed his pace to a brisk one besides his faithful butler.

“We’ll have to leave immediately,” he decided. “Having Targent breathe down my neck is not an enjoyable experience, and I am certain that the Chief of Police will harbour a grudge against me for humiliating him in front of his subordinates. However…” a thought struck him and he cracked a small smile. “There are other ways to get in.”

—∮—

A week later, Jean Descolé walked into the town, dressed like any other tourist looking for the famous town of mist. He was recognized by no one as he crossed the bridge and walked up the road leading to the main square. After careful consideration, Desmond had decided to search for the possible candidates himself; as an innocent tourist, he would be at no risk if he were to be asked for his purpose there. He had even refused Raymond’s help this time—after all, he was quite confident in his disguising abilities.

The first weekend in Misthallery masked as Jean went well. The local children, or at least the few he met, were excited to meet a French person and requested to hear simple words such as _chien_ , _arbre_ and _heureux_ , and he entertained them, thinking of his daughter. Meanwhile he avoided the police whenever he could, sticking to the shadows and corners of houses. When he got a decent idea of one area, he moved on to the next, mapping out the town in great detail in his mind. This continued for some weeks until the winter break of Oxshire.

“Three weeks? You sure, laddie?”

“Yes, monsieur. Here is the money.”

The hotel owner shut right up after seeing the wad of money Jean produced from his wallet. Having secured a room, Jean once more returned to the activities he had been doing the past few weeks. He had covered a lot since October—almost half of the town—and was now looking into the left side of the Grand Plaza, and the forest off to one side with a rough map that one of the townspeople provided. Carefully picking his way across the narrow canal, he stepped into the dense woods.

The forest was another thing in itself, with the tress allowing him to pass through a path barely wide enough for one man. Even though it had snowed the previous night, barely any were piled up, the trees preventing them from reaching the ground. Feeling that he would soon get lost without a decent map, Jean whipped out a pen and the map, proceeding to add the details he observed to the jagged lines of the original. Absorbed in the drawings, he almost didn’t hear the footsteps of heavy boots until one of them decided to talk aloud, startling him so that he almost dropped the pen in his grip.

“Sure there’s someone here? Looks fishy to me.” A high voice inquired.

“You heard the boy near the bridge; a lad went in here an hour ago and never came out. The big boss is gonna be real upset when he knows we let someone in here under our watch.” Another voice, much lower, answered in an impatient tone.

There was no doubt who the voices belonged to; Jean looked around for a place to hide and found only one possible way. Confirming that the footsteps were getting ever closer he held on to a particularly thick branch above his head and hoisted himself up the tree behind him. Not a moment too soon, the voices approached the tree Jean was sitting in.

“I was sure there were footprints here…” The high voice muttered, apparently in disbelief.

“A false lead again? There’s nowhere a person could be ’round here. Get your prescription checked, Swallow.”

“Insulting my eyesight now, are you?” The voices got progressively louder. Sensing a fight, Jean settled down and proceeded to watch the two men go at each other’s throats like angered dogs. He was perturbed, though—if Targent found the Garden before him, all would be for naught. After the two let the area, still bickering, he jumped down and resumed his trek through the forest. Half an hour later, he found a series of rocky pillars and felt his heart beat faster, just a little. They looked quite suspicious, so he continued walking towards the walls of stone and found a deep chasm that was definitely out of place with the forestry around him.

“This might be a lead to something!” Positive that this could be a clue to the location of the Garden, Jean made careful note of the place before venturing around the chasm. A ledge at the top of the gorge provided a nice vantage point from where he could look down on the entire thing; it reeked of suspiciousness. Taking care to step on all available platforms, he made his way down inch by inch and reached the bottom. The view from there revealed how much the entire setting was unlike the backgrounds, with being barren and devoid of any foliage. As he took a closer look, though, he found that there was something other than the strangeness he had first perceived there.

“These are…Azran symbols.” Shocked, Jean combed every inch of the small patch of ground he could reach. Scrutiny revealed that the rocky earth actually was blocks of Azran relics. Satisfied with his find, Jean decided to climb up and retire for the day; for he could see the sun setting and it would take a while to get back to his hotel room. He would return tomorrow, well rested and ready for a proper excavation trip.

For the next three days, Jean frequented the hidden gorge, which astounded him every time he was there. The amount of Azran-related artefacts that were hidden just out of sight were enough to convince him that this was the most likely place the Golden Garden lay. After he collected enough data, he quickly left the perimeters.

The rest of the three-week stay was spent examining the rest of the town, however cursory it may be. Desmond was eager to return to his house and go over the data he had collected, and finalize his plan. He was also part anticipating, part dreading the earful he would most positively get when he calls Celeste again, though he had fully explained what he was doing beforehand. His presumptions were spot on, as Celeste’s voice almost ruptured his eardrum right after he called her.

“DESMOND THEODORE SYCAMORE!” Desmond winced, holding the receiver at arm’s length at the thunderous sound. He could swear that Raymond was quietly chuckling somewhere in the house- the sound left a ringing in his ears as he tried to apologize to his irate wife.

“Celeste, I’m sorry for being gone-”

“YOU are more worrisome than an entire squadron of Targent! Do you know what I mean?!”

“But I told-”

“What if something had happened to you and we were left here? What if they took you? What should we do then?” Celeste took a deep breath over the line, evidently trying to calm herself as she finally quieted down. “Helen’s been worried sick about you. She’s only five and a half years old, Desmond; she needs her father.”

Desmond cringed at her words. They were all right, of course; he hadn’t really thought through what his family would be thinking during his not-so-brief stay at Misthallery. He apologized to Celeste again, and once more to his daughter when she got on the other side. Although Helen seemed to forgive him easily, there was still the undercurrent of unhappiness in here tone that tore at his heart.

“Daddy, when can we come home?”

“Soon, little one, soon. If this goes to plan we’ll all be living together again.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

He could hear Helen cheering. “I love you daddy! Mr Mondy says that he’s glad too!”

“Me too, Helen.” Tearing up a little inside, Desmond disconnected and returned to writing the first draft of the paper he was planning to submit to a prominent archaeology journal. He was betting on Targent halting their own investigations of the area if the facts that the Golden Garden might be lying beneath the town got out to the public, therefore making it dangerous for them to operate in the area undercover. As he typed away, he began to think about the excavation process. They would have to get the whole thing over with in quick succession, and his mechanic side began to wake up as he thought about the possibilities.

For the next two weeks, Desmond alternated between writing the paper, teaching, as the winter break was over, and designing an excavation machine. His main focus of the three was the excavation machine. If he could finalize the blueprint and start the manufacturing process before he presented his paper to the journal, the project would be able to start and end much sooner. So, in the middle of February, when the design was completed and a smaller model was built and tested, Desmond found himself once more disguised as Jean on a bus headed to one of the promising companies that agreed to see his design. Jean Descolé was an alias he had been using for quite some time, mainly as an engineer and inventor, and though he hadn’t really done something in years, his name was still well known to the interested parties.

Rain was pouring down in rivulets, making it almost impossible to see out the glass panes of the bus. Jean escaped the overcrowded, damp vehicle as soon as he could, hugging his briefcase to his chest to prevent it from getting wet. Thankfully, the company he was visiting was close to the bus stop; the nameplate ‘Hastings’ stood out with the building itself being much bigger than the neighbouring ones. He hurried up the stairs to flee from the rain as fast as he could. The moment he set foot in the place, a young secretary asking him to state his business greeted him.

“My name is Jean Descolé. Mr Hastings and I have a business meeting scheduled at three.”

The secretary immediately reached for the phone while putting his dripping umbrella away. After half a minute or so of quiet conversation, he put the receiver down and told Jean that the CEO would be here shortly. True to his words, a rather portly and stout man sporting an extraordinary moustache soon appeared from the stairs and hurried over to where Jean stood.

“Mr Descolé? David Hastings.”

The two men shook hands. Hastings looked quite unremarkable save for his moustache; he certainly did not look like the owner of a rising star company in the mechanic industry. The man maintained a courteous smile as he told Jean that they were having the meeting on the second floor, motioning to the taller man to follow him.

Jean was led into a cosy room furnished differently from what normal business meeting rooms would look like. The seats were comfortable-looking armchairs; a platter of scones and assortments of cookies was laid out on the table next to two steaming cups of black tea.

“The finest black tea imported directly from India,” Hastings proudly declared. Jean nodded appreciatively as he settled down on the chair, Hastings doing the same across him. He took a sip of the tea; it held an exotic taste that he couldn't quite name, but was enjoyable enough.

“So, I must admit that I'm quite interested in this machine of yours. An excavation machine, you say?”

"Yes, Mr Hastings. The concept design is right here.” Jean opened his briefcase and pulled out the files inside. He selected the one named ‘Design’ and extracted a piece with his drawings on it. As he passed it over to the businessman, Jean launched into a detailed explanation of the project with Hastings avidly listening, only pausing to quench his thirst with his tea. When he finished Hastings clapped enthusiastically, a big grin splitting his face.

“Excellent, excellent, Mr Descolé! Very impressive indeed!”

Relieved, Jean let a small smile grace his lips. “Thank you, Mr Hastings. So do we have a deal then?”

“Of course! Though I have a small question, if you don't mind?”

“I would be happy to answer.”

“Well then, I simply must ask- why ask me, an Englishman and a newcomer in this business, while there are other bigger companies in France and England alike?”

“I haven’t set foot on the Continent since I was a young boy. It would be strange to do so now, for I have lived my life out here in London. I have also heard much about Hastings, sir, and naturally I was interested in your work.” Jean replied with ease, stifling a yawn. He attributed it to the lack of sleep he had last night and talked with the CEO a bit more about the whole business.

“I heard that you're a fan of archaeology, Mr Hastings.”

“Very true! That is why most of our products are geared towards the technology needed in that field, my good sir. Are you looking into archaeology too?”

“I once studied the subject myself. It actually inspired me to design this machine.”

The conversation kept going on like that, and it was only after his fifth consecutive yawn that Jean felt something was wrong with him.

“What...?” It took him forever to lift his arm, only for it to flop to the side uselessly when he tried to put his weight on it. Jean felt his anxiety rise as he floundered, trying to overcome his sudden sleepiness and loss of mobility.

“Finally. Thought there was something wrong with the dose.” Hastings was eerily calm while Jean grew increasingly panicky. At that moment, Jean realized he had been played.

“You drugged me,” Jean slurred, his mind to sluggish to produce the proper reactions he would have displayed by now. He had no control over his limbs as he futilely struggled to stand. Hastings wore a satisfied smirk on his face while he drank the last of his tea, the fine china clinking against the saucer. “How?”

“Us Brits tend to enjoy our tea a little bit too much, don’t you think? I was gambling on your attitude with the cuppa, since you’re French, but you played your part perfectly.”

Jean managed out a mumbled ‘why’. Hastings seemed genuinely sad for a split second before answering.

“You're relatively low on my stockholder’s ‘Wanted’ list, seeing as you’re not an archaeologist, but you’ve risen a significant amount recently. Also, just being on that list means I get a bonus fee for disposing of you. The designs you brought me will work quite nicely for additional appeal for funds. It’s sad to see a great mind like you go like this, but the money he promised outweighs your usefulness.”

“Who…” Jean mentally smacked himself for not noticing it sooner. His consciousness was slipping bit by bit as he forced out a question. “The stockholder. Beldin?”

“So you know him! I have no hard feelings towards you, Mr Descolé. Your brilliant mind will be a great loss, but I keep my promises, and I promised the Duke that I would help eliminate the ones on the list. Farwell, Jean Descolé. It was nice meeting you.”

Jean could only watch helplessly as the other man leisurely rose from his seat, straightening out his clothes. The last thing he heard in his drowsy state before succumbing to a dreamless sleep was Hastings stepping out of the room, calling for the ‘cleaning crew’.

—∮—

“-a human in that bag, I tell you! We’re _murderin’_ someone!”

“What did you think you’d be doing when you applied to the job?”

Desmond slowly came to in a dark, stuffy and uncomfortable space. He tried moving his body; the general feeling of tightness around his wrists and calves informed him of his current state. The scratchiness near his eyes and mouth indicated a blindfold and gag respectively. Desmond struggled to stay calm while he tried to shake out the pocketknife hidden in his suit.

There was nothing there.

Now Desmond was truly afraid. He was stuffed in something bound, gagged and blindfolded; had no means of escape and was utterly alone. His hands were bound behind his back, preventing him from moving his arms too much. Was this the end for him? Disguised as somebody else, doomed to be lost to his family for evermore? Too submerged in his distress, he only managed to catch a part of a deep baritone saying something.

“-gotta go take a piss. Keep an eye on that sack, will ya?”

“Sure, Walter. Go on.”

The sound of a car screeching to a halt and a door slamming registered in his mind at the same time the top of the thing he was trapped in opened with a rustling sound. Something was dropped through it with care, the object landing next to his bound hands with a muffled thunk. The person who opened the sack spoke in a whisper, seemingly nervous about being found out.

“Look, I didn't sign up for murder, I don’t-I don't wanna kill nobody, so I’m giving you this, okay? I can't just let you go, ’cause Walter’s here, and I’ll get fired and probably end up like you, but y’know, just- try to get out as fast as you can. Sorry.”

The brief monologue ended as the opening closed once more. Desmond touched the dropped thing, hoping for a sharp object. His hand met cold metal, and soon reached the familiar engravings on the hilt. It was a knife- not just any knife, but his pocketknife. Giddy with relief, Desmond flipped it open and set to cut through his bonds. The click of a door closing and an engine revving made him double in his efforts; he was going to get out before they decided to shoot him through the sack or something.

The waves seemed to get closer as the seconds flew by. Too soon, the rumble of the vehicle ceased to exist, and the sack he was in was dragged on the ground unceremoniously for some time before being thrown on something hard. The impact jarred his hold on the knife, and he almost lost his grip. He resumed cutting through the ropes as soon as his hands stopped shaking. However, the puttering of an old motorboat coming to life distracted him. Desmond froze up when he finally realized what they were going to do to him- drop him in the sea to drown.

“How far should we go?” The man who had given him the knife yelled. The other one, Walter, shouted back that they would go only a few miles because we’re not supposed to use this thing. Meanwhile Desmond had recovered, freed his hands and pulled off the gag and blindfold alongside his Jean Descolé disguise. It would only hinder his flight. He was working on his legs when the engine quieted down and firm hands gripped the sack.

“Sorry, whoever’s-in-there. It’s nothing personal,” Walter muttered before rolling him overboard. Desmond only had a second before the sack hit the cold February sea, shocking him with its icy touch. The real danger was, however, the seawater seeping through the slight space of the opening. Desmond furiously cut through the rest of his bonds, and then tried to open the sack to no avail; it was tied in such a way that it could only be opened from the outside. Breathing in short gasps, he attacked the sack itself with his knife, and succeeded in forcing it through the skin. Taking a deep breath, he dragged the knife downwards and tore through his now-open prison. The sea was even colder than he anticipated, almost making him choke on his meagre air supply, but he relentlessly swam towards the surface. Just as he thought holding his breath anymore was impossible, his hands met cool air, and his face followed suit.

Gasping for air as he surfaced, Desmond kept kicking as he took in his surroundings. It was nighttime, so he searched for land, light, or anything that could save him. Luckily, he spotted a small boat not too far away, and he began to clumsily swim towards it, calling for help the whole way. His strength, however, which was not that great to begin with, failed him halfway along resulting in his strokes slowing down and his voice getting hoarser. The cold seawater did not help in the least. The boat’s owner seemed to have heard him, though, for it sailed towards him with a distinct put-put-putting motor. Desmond recognized it from mere minutes ago: it was the same boat that had led him to his almost-death. He cursed and turned to the opposite direction, now intent on getting away from it. He did not achieve much distance between himself and the boat before his now numb legs gave up. Escaping wasn't the criteria anymore; surviving was his goal.

“‘Ey! Waddya think yer doin’?”

The person operating the boat shouted. Desmond ignored him in favour of splashing around, but his tired body refused to cooperate with him anymore, and he began to slowly sink. Water flooded his mouth; he abandoned any hopes of moving and kept on fighting to stay aloft. It soon became all too much for him, though, and the water kept getting colder and colder and…


	6. Rescues and Reunions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Desmond is saved, and makes a decision that will change the course of his actions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter will be my last one before I go on a hiatus; midterms are only a week away. I beg your patience until the next one comes up. As always, I thank you for reading my fic, and please, comment!

Cold.

 _Cold_.

It was so cold…

…

A warm thing was encasing him. Desmond felt something he had not for a long, long time: safety. He was content to relax with the lovely softness until a particularly strong cough tore itself out of his lung, forcing a strangled sound out of him. Cracking an eye open, he saw that he was lying on something soft inside an unfamiliar, old room. With no recollection of how he had gotten there, and the realization of the lack of clothes he was currently experiencing, Desmond panicked and tried to get out of the thick blankets covering him. His breaths kept coming in short gasps, hindering his progress, and he wound up even more hopelessly entangled in them. The racket he had made, though, at least had awakened the owner of the room—or house. An elderly man with a wild beard stood in the doorway holding a cup of something in his hands. Desmond redoubled his efforts in escaping the layers of covers he was trapped in.

“Steady, boy. I’s not here to hurten you.”

The man calmed Desmond down with a soothing tone that did not match his accent and general roughness. He tried to speak, but his parched throat demanded water first. Abandoning any thoughts of escape, he fixated upon the drink in the old man’s hands. A series of dry coughs tore through his lungs, further shaking his already shivering frame. The man hurried to him with the drink and held the cup to Desmond’s lips.

“Drink up; it’s honey tea.”

Desmond accepted the help and let the sweet liquid swirl around in his mouth before swallowing slowly. This continued for a while until he was ready to talk.

“Thank you, sir, but why am I here?”

Why did his first question sound so accusatory? Even in his raspy voice, there was a trace of mistrust. Desmond mentally berated himself for that slip-up; fortunately, the man paid no heed to his tone as he answered.

“Why tha beest here? Ha! Who chose to take a swim in the winter sea?”

“Swim…? I’m sorry, sir, but I don’t remember.” His words were punctuated with coughs that shuddered through his body. The old man frowned at him.

“You don’t remember?” The disbelief in the stranger’s voice made Desmond wince as he dug into his memory to fill the holes scattered throughout the timeline in his head. He remembered visiting Hastings, the tea, conversing with the man himself…and being drugged. The reason why he was in the house came back to him in full clarity, accompanied by the vivid terror of being trapped in a sack with no means of escape. Nothing crossed his mind after that, though, so he supposed that he had been left to drown in his bindings and somehow miraculously escaped. Therefore, he assumed, this man must have saved him from certain death.

“You…saved me?”

“Of course I did! Tha been puddled or summit? Or tha with the wassocks that stole my Betty?”

Desmond was having a hard time understanding the man. He settled for asking the man where he was in hopes of identifying the region.

“Lincolnshire. So you answering the question or not?”

That would explain the accent and the words he was hearing. Having gotten the general gist of the man’s question, Desmond replied in a halting voice.

“I was thrown overboard by the men who stole your ‘Betty’, by which I assume you mean your boat? I assure you, I am not acquainted with them in any way.”

The man harrumphed, looking dissatisfied, but his demeanour returned to the level it had been when he first entered the room. “Right. So then, I’m Jared—what’s yours?”

“My…? Oh, my name is…John.” Desmond uttered the first name that came to his mind. Jared’s features softened as he gazed down on Desmond.

“Well, John, tha ain’t goin’ anywhere in tha’ state, being half de’ad an’all. Rest up and we’ll see if tha’re bonny enough to travel.”

“But-!” His words were cut off by a sudden bout of coughing. Dizziness threatened to overcome his already tired state, and he tried to swallow the bile that rose with the coughing in his throat. Jared fetched him a pail from somewhere in ten seconds flat, and prompted Desmond to let it out, which he gladly obliged. After that particular bit of excitement he grudgingly agreed that he might be too ill to move right then. Jared fussed with him some more, then brought him some clothes that decidedly were not Desmond’s.

“Jared, my clothes—”

“Are in the bin, had to cut ’em from thee-thee were clemming to death. These’ll fit thee well enough; were my son’s.”

Jared left the room after saying those words, placing the clothes in his hands near Desmond’s feet while muttering about young’uns these days. Desmond delicately untangled himself from the mass of blankets and reached for the garments, almost upsetting his stomach again in his haste to cover himself. It was at that moment he realized he was lying in a bed; was this Jared’s? Saving that question for later, he turned his attention to the gift that Jared left him. They hung off his frame, but were fitting enough for him to wear without feeling uncomfortable. The man entered the room again as soon as Desmond settled against the bedframe in a comfortable position, holding a pot that he deposited on the bedside table.

“Tha decent?” When Desmond nodded, Jared grunted ‘good’ and drew the covers up around him; he had started unconsciously shivering again. Desmond offered a grateful smile to his saviour, who set up a chair near the head of the bed.

“What the hell did tha do to get dumped int’ the sea like that? Gotten any mortal enemies?” Jared chuckled to himself after those words. “Seem too young for that, thoff.”

“I would think I’m old enough for enemies,” Desmond interjected while forcing out another cough. Jared turned a critical eye on him.

“How old are tha, then? In your twenties?”

“Thirty-seven, actually.”

Jared stared at his face, then at his body, then at his face some more. When he spoke, his voice was heavily laden with incredulity. “Thirty-seven? Hout! Tha pulling my leg?”

“No, really.” Desmond smiled at Jared’s apparent confusion. His appearance misled quite a lot of people, and this time was no exception. His rescuer, meanwhile, had given up trying to make sense of his age and was ladling the thing in the pot into a smaller bowl.

“Here, this’ll warm thee up.”

Desmond was handed a bowl filled with rich soup that smelled of beef. He gracefully declined the man offering to feed him; he wasn’t that weak, after all. The soup was quite decadent and delicious, and Desmond forced himself to eat in small portions despite the hunger pangs that started to shoot through him. Jared looked on with an almost fatherly wistfulness on his face.

When he finished his meal, one of the basic needs of a human came back to him in full force: sleep. However, he was still tormented with the thoughts of his family. Celeste, Helen, Raymond… Raymond. The butler must be worrying himself sick judging from his past actions whenever Desmond was hurt or under threat. Desmond felt a bit of guilt gnawing at his insides; here he was, resting in comfort while his friend of almost thirty years was probably at his wit’s end at home due to his absence. The best course of action for now, he decided, was to get a good bit of rest and leave as soon as he could to where he could contact the man and let him know he was safe.

Three days later, Desmond was no longer bound to the bed and had recovered a significant amount of strength. His illness was showing no sign of getting better, though, and he was determined to leave the place that day. Taking tentative steps out of the tumbledown cottage, he shivered against the cold February wind. It was colder than he had anticipated, and he was about to go inside the house for some more layers of protection when something on the ground caught his eye.

“Surely not,” he muttered, stepping closer to the large sea-greenish plate embedded in the soil. However, closer inspection proved his suspicions true; the plate was engraved with Azran words surrounding a strange shape that was shaped like a teardrop. Completely befuddled by this sudden discovery of evidence of the Azran civilization in somewhere he had previously never thought of, he crouched down to translate the letters.

 _“_ _Our friends have sworn undying loyalty to their Queen; and as such, they have followed her into endless sleep. Let us remember, let us preserve. They will live on forever, and be reunited with their beloved Queen once more in the kingdom of the east.”_ He read, trying to remember where he had heard the story. There was a familiar vibe to it, something related to eternal life that was still a mystery to archaeologists today. After he committed the words on the plate to his memory, Desmond went inside to prepare for his leave. With this new information, he was eager to return home and see if he could find anything related to the text.

“Noo, take care on theesen, eh? Tonning up like tha did is a sore mazzling to ivvryone.” Jared saw him off with some fare for the train and directions to how to reach the closest town, which thankfully had a train station. He had told Desmond the day before that he reminded him of his son, who had left for the city and never returned. Desmond offered to search for him, but Jared declined, assuring him that his son would someday return home. In return, the man worried about Desmond’s continuing illness, and the younger man promised him that he would see a physician when he reached his destination.

“Thank you, Jared. You’ve been a great host and lifesaver; my most sincere gratitude’s for saving and taking care of me.”

Desmond bid his rescuer farewell and started on the path to his home. He was keen to see Raymond again and if possible his wife and daughter too. His view on his life had changed after his narrow escape from the clutches of death; he could die anytime, so he wanted to cherish what time he could spend together with his family.

The train ride to London was uneventful save for the box of tissues he went through due to his sickness. Concealed under the clothes Jared gave him, and some improvised disguises that included shades to conceal his unusual eye colour, Desmond made it back to the familiar sight of his house. However, he was accosted by a shadow that came from nowhere the moment he set foot on the pavestones that led to the front door, and was pinned to the ground with his hands jerked behind his back. The air left his lungs in a mere second, and Desmond struggled to draw breath.

“Ye hae some nerve, sneakin' in in broad daylecht loch thes.”

It had been some time since he had heard Raymond speaking like that. Raymond’s Scottish only came out when he was truly angry, and the growl in his butler’s voice indicated that he would be in big trouble if he didn’t reveal who he really was. Desmond forced his words out through a slew of coughs.

“Raymond, it’s me, no need for-oomph!” Desmond was cut off mid-sentence by Raymond, who flipped him over and tore the sunglasses from his eyes. The two stared at each other’s face for a full minute in total silence, and the spell broke when Raymond started pulling at Desmond’s cheeks in a brusque manner. Desmond tried to vocalize his protests, but he couldn’t say anything when Raymond let go of his cheeks and held him in a crushing embrace.

“Dae ye hae onie idea hoo much I was worried? I was gonnae sparse tryin' tae fin' ye! An’ ye… ye…”

Desmond was unable to do anything than trying to apologise to his butler-slash-friend. He could only imagine how Raymond must have felt when he didn’t come back after leaving for the company that unfortunate day. A series of particularly violent hackings attracted his butler’s attention.

“Are you all right, Master?” Raymond’s Scottish dialect changed into his usual one with concern, and he helped his master up. An unexpected chill made Desmond shiver despite being bundled up in warm clothes. He knew that this wasn’t the common cold he was dealing with right then; it was something more persistent and dangerous.

“I…may need to see the family physician,” he managed in a hoarse voice, leaning heavily on his butler. After checking Desmond for a fever, which he had, Raymond wasted no time in leading his master into the house for a change of clothes, then calling for the family physician. The results were both worrying and relieving at the same time.

“Pneumonia?” Desmond repeated, a mask of cold indifference hiding his shock. The doctor nodded with a solemn face.

“It isn’t too severe, but in most cases untreated pneumonia can lead to death. May I suggest using sulphapyridine? Our American counterparts have found this method to be quite effective in dropping the mortality rate in pneumonia.”

Desmond agreed in a heartbeat, as he vaguely remembered reading a clip in the Times that the fatality rate for pneumonia had dropped quite a lot due to a recent breakthrough in the medical field. The physician assured him that he would return with the medicine in a few hours and left the house. Exhaustion crept up and threatened to engulf him, but Desmond persevered and shook the tiredness from his body. It was a weekday afternoon, and he had a few calls to make before he could rest without worries.

“Dean Winchester?”

“Professor Sycamore! You’ve been missed these two days—I heard that you’d gone missing. What happened?”

“I…” Desmond glanced around, trying to contrive a plausible tale with desperation. “I was, well, kidnapped for a while. I’ve escaped, as you can see, but I have unfortunately acquired pneumonia during my captivity.”

“ _Kidnapped_?” The Dean’s voice rose a full pitch. “Good grief, are you alright? And pneumonia! Are you going to be able to _live_?”

“Yes, my symptoms are not that severe, but I may not be able to return to work this week. Apologies, sir.” He had to stop a few times, owing to his coughing.

“Oh no, no! Don’t apologise for something you can’t help. Focus on getting better as soon as possible, professor. Are you sure you can return after only a week of rest?”

“Positive, sir. Thank you.”

After ending the call, Desmond dialled the number he was painfully familiar with as he had decided earlier. Celeste was on the line after only two rings.

“Raymond? Any news on Desmond's whereabouts?”

He hadn’t expected those words, and to be spoken in such a way that it gave off waves of heartbreak. Desmond was unsure how to respond to that question. How would she react to his voice on the line? Finding no answer, he threw caution to the wind as he opened his mouth.

“Celeste, I—”

“Desmond?” Celeste’s voice held none of the anger he had been half-expecting, but uncertainty and a hint of tears. “Is it-is it really you?”

“Yes. I’m sorry for being late, Celeste.”

“I was so worried…!” The unmistakable sounds of sobbing crackled over the receiver. At a loss on what to say, Desmond tried to placate his now wailing wife. Little Helen’s cries calling for her mum, asking her why she was crying, only served to make Celeste cry harder. She stopped after a good five minutes of absolute panic from Desmond’s end.

“I’m sorry, Celeste. Being kidnapped was not part of my plan.”

“Well of course it wasn’t!” He heard Celeste take a deep breath. “So, when are you planning to see us this month?”

“Ah, about that, dearest. I thought it would be best if you and Helen returned to England.”

“Really?” Celeste’s voice was heavy with both astonishment and relief. Desmond smiled over the phone despite knowing she couldn’t see it. He agreed on a date with her, and settled down in the lounge waiting for the physician to come by.

—∮—

After two weeks of medication and rest, he was on a boat with his butler, headed to France. Despite his butler and physician both advising him to rest as he was not completely back to health, he was adamant in the matter; he wished to see his wife and daughter again. The Jean Descolé disguise he had created in detail with care was gone, so he had to make do with a mask and hat to cover his eye and hair colour. He also wore a mask covering his mouth and gloves; he was not risking his family’s lives with his illness. Once he arrived in Pierroux, the familiar outlines of the two most precious people to him in the world ran out to greet him.

 _“_ _Uncle!”_ Sylvie exclaimed in French, jumping into his outstretched arms with her dolphin plush in one hand. Jean spun his niece around with a delighted smile on his face. Mireille hung back, but her stance told another tale of her emotions right now. Setting Sylvie down, Jean approached Mireille.

_“_ _Ready to go now, sister?”_

_“_ _Yes. I will miss this town.”_ She replied, gesturing to the bags piled at the porch of the house he had bought such a long time ago. Remembering another person he had to see before leaving this place for good, Jean left Raymond to help load their luggage and went to Blanche’s house.

_“_ _Blanche? Are you in?”_

_“_ _Jean?”_ The door opened as soon as he called for his friend. The Frenchman took one look at his attire and tried to slam the door shut. Only Jean’s foot kept him from closing it all the way.

_“_ _No, Blanche, it’s me!”_

_“_ _What’s with the mask? And the hat_?” Suspicion was dominant in Blanche’s accent. Jean hadn’t thought of an explanation before, so he struggled to come up with an acceptable answer. Blanche kept trying to shut the door and in a last, desperate attempt, Jean tore his mask and hat away in a single flourish.

 _“_ _What- your hair. And your eyes. What happened_?” Blanche inquired, now a bit less aggressive than before. Jean refused to tell him unless Blanche trusted him on the matter. Dispelling the mistrustful scowl, Blanche opened the door, releasing Jean’s foot in the process. Wincing, he followed the Frenchman inside the house.

_“_ _So, why are you wearing another face?”_

_“_ _I was involved with an undercover mission a few days before. I haven’t had the time to take the disguise off.”_

_“_ _Aren’t you an engineer?”_

_“_ _Unfortunately, my line of work includes infiltrating other competitor’s rival’s businesses’.”_ Jean improvised on the spot. Jean had always been a good deceiver, and that talent came in handy in many situations. Blanche harrumphed, and then changed the subject.

_“_ _You’re pulling them away? Been discovered?”_

_“_ _Yes. I fear for them, and I have been preparing another safe house for them in the meantime.”_

_“_ _A pity, but you’ve done well in setting your priorities. They have been a valuable addition to this town for the last year. I’m sure this county will welcome them back with open arms should you return in the future.”_

Jean thanked the veteran with sincerity, and talked with him some more before preparing to leave. Blanche reached for him as he put a hand on the front door.

 _“_ _One more thing, Jean.”_ His cordial smile changed into a more serious one. _“Protect them with all you’ve got, lest you end up like me. Promise me.”_

Jean sent a confused and startled glance at him. Then it hit him at once: why Blanche lived by himself, never wedding a woman, and why he got defensive whenever his family and especially his siblings came up in conversations. Swallowing, he vowed to do as the veteran advised. Blanche saw him off with a melancholy mien, and Jean walked to the carriage holding a heavy heart.

“Daddy, are we going to stay in our home from now on?” Helen asked once they were out of the town’s outskirts. Desmond assured her that he would never send her away, and that they would stay together from now on. The ecstatic beam that appeared on his daughter’s face could light up the world and more. Celeste put a hand on his shoulder as if to show her support. Overall, even though he was going against his original reason in bringing them to France, Desmond was content. During the three days he had spent at home resting, he had mulled over his family’s reactions to his decision, and had become aware of something important that he had overlooked until then. He may have kept his family safe in body by sending them to France, but he hadn’t thought to ask them their opinions when they were the ones who would be affected by his choice. Still absorbed in his dilemma about his actions, Desmond had to be physically shaken from his pondering by his wife when they arrived at the pier to take the boat back to England.

“Home!” Helen squealed, running up to the lone house in the outskirts of London. Desmond followed her with suitcases in both hands, followed by Celeste and Raymond, also carrying luggage. He and Raymond had spent the night before preparing the house as it had been two years ago, when the two women had left. The effort had not been in vain, as the first thing Helen did was to dash to her bedroom and flop onto the bed with the dolphin still in her hand. Desmond leaned on the doorframe as his daughter greeted the things in her room as if they were her long-lost friends with exaggerated gestures. Her face was one of pure joy, an expression he hadn’t noticed that was missing until now. It melted his heart to see her so carefree, as if a weight had been lifted off her shoulders.

The following days were more hectic, as Desmond was now tasked with teaching, healing and caring for his family, but he had never been happier in his life. Finally, he had finished his paper and submitted it to the journal, and it became a sensation within a few days. _The Times_ even wrote an article about his findings on its front page. Immersed in his work, he almost forgot about the plate that he had found at the cottage until he was telling the story of how Jared saved him from certain death to Raymond and Celeste after putting Helen to bed. The moment he recalled the text on the sea-green slab of stone, Desmond dived into his study to dig up a book he knew that held the information he was looking for. Rutledge, an accomplished researcher before his time, had written several tomes about ancient civilizations and he faintly remembered a passage in one book concerning the Kingdom of Eternity. Flipping through the pages, his eyes skimming through the text, he arrived at a section that described an old tale of the legends.

“The Kingdom of Ambrosia, or the Kingdom of Eternity, is speculated to have existed in the time of the Azran. The few records of the ancient people describes a nation with a song-loving Queen, and her people who achieved immortality after their Queen’s untimely death.” Desmond’s eyes lit up after reading that passage. This was it! Ambrosia, the immortal kingdom, was not a simple fairy tale for children. It was a real sovereignty, having existed over a million years ago, and related to the Azran. Excited, he asked Raymond to find a detailed map of Lincolnshire while he himself fetched a map of the United Kingdom. As he had done before, he found an island by drawing a straight line from the place he was sure the cottage lay. It wasn’t that far out into the Pond, so he supposed it would be a quick trip to visit the island and return. However, when he opened his mouth to tell his wife and butler that he would be there for only a short time, so he would go there unaccompanied, two different hands silenced him. Celeste was the first to remove her hand and voice her thoughts, anticipating his own opinion.

“You are not going out there alone, Des. I am not going to stand by and let you go through a potential death trap all by yourself!”

“Mistress is right,” Raymond chimed in. “Master, if you go there alone, this old buck is not going to be able to rest until he knows you are safe and sound.”

“But…” Desmond glanced between the two determined faces staring at him. Stubborn as he was, Celeste and Raymond were the only two people he deemed to be more stalwart than he was, and both were against him in this matter. He still had one last argument to make, though.

“What about Helen? She needs somebody to care for her. We can’t all leave.”

“Then bring her with us,” stated Celeste, as if it was the only logical conclusion. “That would be less worrying than fretting over her safety; this could be a family trip, not an archaeological mission. Since you made your research public, Targent would be too focused on that town to notice us moving around.”

Celeste was not going to back up by the looks of it, so Desmond relented and promised her that they would see this thing through together. Though he had made the decision to bring his family back together, he was still hesitant to put them in harm’s way. He cast a look at her to be sure that she wanted this; his wife grasped his hand in a firm grip. She was the picture of confidence, but her trembling hands told another story. Was she reconsidering her decision? But she seemed so sure of herself.

“I’m worried, Des.” Desmond was encased in a shaking hug. In a small voice that was a hundred and eighty degrees different from her previous assertive stance, Celeste murmured into his shoulder.

“I’m scared of them. I’m terrified that we might all end up dead. I’m worried, worried that I might have made the wrong decision in agreeing to bring Helen home and it might put her in greater danger than before. Afraid for you, love, that you might get kidnapped, hurt, killed or worse. You’ve gone through so much…”

It was the first time Celeste had shown this side of herself to him. Always bold and adventurous with a courageous spirit, she had been the voice of reassurance whenever he had faltered in his steps, supporting him through hardships. The sudden reversal of roles was shocking to Desmond, but he took it in stride as he provided what Celeste needed at that moment.

“You’re right, dear,” he whispered into her hear. “It’s all right to be scared. I too am afraid for your and Helen’s safety. However, I cannot be sure of your wellbeing when we are so far away. Yes, Targent may hunt us, to kill us all with one fatal blow. But I would choose death without hesitation as many times as I need before I let any harm come to anyone in my family. You needn’t worry about me; that is my role regarding you.”

Raymond, who had disappeared for a short moment, returned with two cups of steaming tea and set it down in front of the couple. He too added his two pennies.

“Master, Mistress, I will always be there to keep you safe. Now don’t you worry, for whatever happens, I shall support you for ever and a day.”

Celeste seemed to be moved to the verge of tears. She flung her arms around both Desmond and Raymond, holding them in a tight embrace. The two men patted her back, soothing the woman’s fears. They remained in that position until she pulled away, when both men wisely refrained from commenting on her tear-stained face.

May was already halfway in when Desmond finally found the time to visit the island with his family. This travel would also be a special one, for it would be the first time he utilized the Bostonius himself for once. After the article about the Golden Garden got out, an excavation team notified him of its formation and offered him the head archaeologist spot. He had been tempted to accept, but declined the offer: he was certain he would be busy enough with his classes and caring for his family. Being on not-so-good terms with the Chief of Police of the local area would not help either, too. Whenever he had extra time, he dedicated his free time to his research of the kingdom of Ambrosia. From what he gleaned, the kingdom revered music and musicians, and he was certain their heritage would somehow be related to the subject. With that information in mind, he headed to the Aerodome on a bright Saturday morning.

When they arrived at the London Aerodome, Helen’s eyes widened at seeing the cluster of aircrafts in all shapes and sizes. Desmond had to hold her from running off to some of the blimps that caught her attention. Even his wife, who usually kept her cool around these things despite majoring in aeronautical engineering, kept pointing out the features on specific aircrafts of impressive machinery. A warm feeling blossomed in Desmond’s heart as he followed the two women onto the Bostonius, Raymond trailing behind him. The old butler slid into the pilot’s seat while the three Sycamores made themselves comfortable on the couch.

“Shall we take off, Master?” Raymond asked once they all settled down. Desmond gave him the okay sign, and as they flew up towards the clear sky, Helen gave a little gasp and ran to the window to see the ground getting more distant. Her parents watched on, content to see their only jewel smile like that. It would be a short ride, but Desmond wanted to keep the blissful smile on his daughter for a bit longer, so he instructed Raymond to stay in the air a little more after they arrived at their destination. A few more minutes wouldn’t matter in the end; the mystery of Ambrosia would still be there for him to solve.


	7. A Tale of Two Towns

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Desmond visits two towns. He also gets an outfit for his other identity.

The trip to the island had been brief, but nonetheless a success. His daughter delighted upon finding a puzzle waiting for her once they reached the place, and strung her mother into solving it while Desmond flew to a boulder situated in a perfect circle of water in the island, which Helen had likened to the eye of a fish. Raymond, who had been scouting the island prior to the visit per his request, had told him of the anomaly. The location reeked of suspiciousness; one barren piece of rock isolated in an otherwise dense forest. His search proved to be fruitful as scaling the gigantic thing could be. There was a narrow ledge spiralling up the rock, and where it levelled out was an ancient seal carved into its face. It was almost indistinguishable from the centuries of erosion it had gone through to the extent that Desmond considered it a miracle he had been able to discern the seal from the scratches and corrosion surrounding it. Copying it, naturally, took up far more time than he had anticipated and by the time he was done, it was nightfall.

After he retrieved the seal, Desmond deliberated over its disposition for some time. Should he destroy it, preventing others—that is, mainly Targent—from finding it, or leave it intact for the sake of archaeology? The answer came to him after a good amount of time spent on the subject: he would build a barrier around the entirety of the boulder, both hiding and protecting the seal from further corruption by nature. At first, the Azran’s choice on the material that the insignia was carved on had confused him, as the race was known to prefer their indestructible structures, but he was determined to safeguard the thing until it was safe to release it to the public.

May slipped into June, and then July; Desmond’s workload was winding down as another school year ended. As time passed, he picked up a dormant hobby for several years—fencing. In his youth, his parents had convinced him to take fencing lessons despite his belief that it was a waste of time. Now, he was grateful to his parents as his sense of balance and flexibility he had acquired during his lessons helped him in various ways in recent times. With that exception, he spent as much time as he could at home, where his heart dwelt, but he also continued with his research on Ambrosia and the seal he found. Two months had passed since the initial discovery, and the construction around the boulder was going on smoothly, cutting off all contact from prying eyes. On another hand, the seal had also been analysed in every way possible to him, and Desmond was able to decipher the meaning of the lines on the top. They were notes, musical scores that formed a melody. The letters inside, however, were another matter. It took another additional five weeks deciphering them. The results gave him another condition to work with, though; it was a song, but a song that required a person who knows a special way of singing.

“Found anything relevant?” Celeste walked into the study, balancing two cups of tea on a tray. Desmond looked up from the seal he was bent over, wincing as his back made a cracking noise. The view out of the small window had changed from being pitch black to a shade of light blue and orange as the sun peeked out from behind the clouds.

“…What time is it?”

“Five, in the morning. I thought you had a class today?”

Desmond groaned. She was right, as always; he did have a class at nine. Accepting the cup, he turned to address her.

“I’ve deciphered it, but… It requires someone who can sing in a specific way, and for that song to be heard all over the island. It could take months, or even years to find someone who meets the criteria.”

Contrary to his current mood, Celeste’s face brightened up. Her explanation was that there was a remote seaside village in England that specialized in the art of vocal performance, and they would know how to sing the song. Perking up, Desmond motioned Celeste to sit down next to him as he fished out his translation of the seal. Once they went over the transcriptions, his wife confirmed her knowledge: the people of the village would know how to sing the song. As it was still Tuesday, the two resolved to visit the town that weekend with some more information via Raymond.

The coming Saturday, Desmond was in the car with his family, Raymond driving as usual. Desmond figured that it wouldn’t take long before they reach the place, as the village was not that far from the London suburb they resided in. Raymond’s research had turned up nothing strange, so he supposed it would be fine for them to travel there. He was sorely mistaken.

“Everything, no, everyone’s…gone. What happened here?” Celeste breathed out in disbelief. Speechless, Desmond stared at the empty houses lining the streets, the wind blowing through vacant windows. Knocking at every door yielded zero results; the occupants were gone, disappeared as if the very air had swallowed them up. His daughter kept to his side, grasping at his hand like it was her lifeline. Only after more than fifteen doors did they find a resident alive, who let them in to explain what happened in this town despite her deteriorating state of health.

“Dead or dying like me. Most moved out after The Sickness.” The old woman informed them about the devastating disease that swept through the village about eighteen years ago; the victims were, surprisingly, healthy and young adults between the age of twenty and forty. It spread fast, striking down more than half of the town’s population in a few months. The remaining families fled the town in search of a cure.

“Word spreads. Out of twenty, fifteen were dead within the week. But sometimes, I hear that two with one girl each lived.”

Desmond clung to that thin sliver of hope as he addressed the woman once again. “Ma’am, may we enquire their names?”

“Mmm…One was something with whistling, and the other had a mighty long surname. Qwateline? Quatelene? Anyway, starts with Q.”

Just to be sure, Desmond asked her if she knew the singing technique of the town; the old woman didn’t, but she told him that the twenty who left all knew how to. Thanking her, the family of three and their butler retreated from the small, skeletal town in a hurry, eager to escape the gloomy mood of the place. While the two adult Sycamores discussed tactics for finding the two families the woman mentioned, Helen held her stuffed dolphin close to herself, nodding off seated between her parents. Desmond noticed his daughter doing so, and with gentle hands laid her head in his lap to let her sleep in peace.

In the end, the two wound up looking through lists of surnames in England, with the help of Raymond and phone books. After several long nights of rifling through pages, they found a distinctive name that started with Q: Quatlane. Jotting the name down Desmond delved into the tomes once again, intending on finding the other one as quickly as possible. He was less lucky on that matter, though, so he supposed one was good enough. If he was lucky, one family would know the other.

At that week’s end, Desmond paid a visit to the Quatlanes alone, who had settled down in the northern parts of London. A redheaded man at least in his fifties opened the door, who then ushered Desmond in without even hearing him out. Confused, but nonetheless determined to achieve what he came for, Desmond thanked the man and launched straight into the reason why he came here.

“To sing a song? In our village, only some of the women could, and my wife died before she could teach Janice the method. The Whistlers might know.”

This was the lead Desmond had been looking for. Although he was disheartened that the Quatlanes could do nothing, he now knew whom to look for, and where. With that thought in mind, he stepped out of the house to return to his own house where his family would be waiting for him. However, once outside, a certain chill crawled over his spine; it was the sensation he would sometimes get when somebody was staring at his back.

“Who’s there?” He demanded, whirling around. “Show yourself!”

Nothing happened, but Desmond’s sharp eyes caught the ripple of a shadow in one of the alleys. Eyes locked on the disturbance, he took off in pursuit of the silhouette. The chase ended in one of the many winding alleys that had dead ends. His stalker was furtively searching for a way to get out; Desmond crept up from behind and jumped, pinning the person down, which earned him a pained grunt as the man struggled to escape.

“Aargh! Let go, you son of a-”

“If I were you, I would shut my mouth.”

The man fell silent as Desmond spoke in a soft but clear tone that dripped menace. The archaeology professor asked the man if Targent sent him; he kept his silence, refusing to talk. As it was clear from the colour of his clothes and hat that the man was indeed a member of the group, Desmond moved over to another question, keeping his voice low.

“How did you find me? If you keep silent, Targent scum, I will not hesitate to cut your tongue out as it clearly has no use to you.”

His pocketknife glinted in his hands, reflecting the weak ray of sunlight filtering into the alley. The Targent minion under him gulped, but didn’t open his mouth. Only when Desmond had forced his mouth open with the knife poised did he proceed to spill his guts out. After the man confessed between sobs, Desmond left the place in brisk paces, intending to return home as fast as he could, feeling guilty for what he had done seconds ago and also being in a hurry. It seemed that Targent, or more likely Bronev, still had a low-key degree of surveillance on him despite the Golden Garden excavation project going on in Misthallery. He had to devise a new way to get around their scrutiny, and quick—as Desmond Sycamore, he would only gather more unwanted attention whenever he moved outside his normal route.

“Your hat and mask would work quite well,” suggested Celeste after hearing Desmond’s concerns. Helen, who thought that her father was dressing up for some kind of event, agreed with enthusiasm. Desmond picked up the garments he had worn when he brought them back home. The hat had flaps and fake hair to prevent his natural hair colour from standing out, and the mask’s eyes had dark visors that obscured his eye but let him see with clarity. Celeste brought out a feathered boa from her closet when Desmond’s hair poked out from the bottom of the flaps. There was a cloak attached to it, so she removed it at first when she gave the boa to her husband, but Desmond reattached it after wearing the boa. It felt like something was missing, he told her as he did so. When he was finished, he turned around with a flourish, the cloak rippling in the air like silk woven from the strands of night. The two clapped and Raymond commented that it was a perfect disguise. Later, when Helen had fallen asleep, Celeste added another few words.

“Go as Jean Descolé, love. Show them that they couldn’t kill you with drowning, that you can come out alive in impossible situations. That’ll be a sweet comeback to them.”

The logical side of Desmond warred with the emotional side for quite a bit after that, but the emotional side won out in the end. Besides, it was vengeance against Targent, and any kind of retaliation or act against them was like having Raymond’s Gypsy pie for meals; in short, sweet and delicious.

Too soon, colourful leaves marked the coming of October. Desmond was determined to solve this puzzle before the month passed by. He had searched for every Whistler known to Britain and had come across a particular opera writer named Oswald Whistler, who had written several famous pieces before his retirement and had a daughter. Feeling that this person might hold the solution to his current conundrum, Desmond scheduled a visit to the man, who was currently residing in the southern parts of London, under the guise of Jean Descolé; he did not wish to be discovered by Targent agents again. What he found there was not what he had expected. For starters, he had to persuade Oswald Whistler to let him in, as the man refused to do so after taking one look at his masked face.

“Mr Whistler? I’m not here to hurt you or your family. If I may, I wish to talk to your daughter, Melina.”

The door opened up by an inch, showing a single, trembling iris. The elder Whistler demanded to know who he was, and why he wanted to see Melina; Jean replied that he would have to come inside to explain. Grumbling, the man opened the door, admitting Jean.

The Whistlers’ home was spacious, but lacked the feeling of a lived-in cosiness. It was almost like an abandoned house, Jean reflected as he followed the older man to a small room at the corner of the house. Inside was a girl in her early twenties, who also looked extremely sick with her pale skin and closed eyes; Jean had to check the rise and fall of her chest to confirm she was in the land of the living. Mr Whistler rushed to her side, making concerned noises and brushing away a single lock of hair that had fallen over her face. Melina—for who else could she be?—blinked her eyes open, reaching for her father. She stopped when she noticed Jean’s presence.

“Father…Who…?”

“Greetings, Miss Whistler. My name is Jean Descolé, and I have come to you to request your assistance…but I see I might have been too late.”

Mr Whistler tried to intervene at that point, but his daughter weakly waved the man off, choosing to speak to Jean.

“What kind of assistance, Mr Descolé?”

Jean produced a copy of the song he transcribed two months ago, the Song of the Sea. After she read it, Melina nodded.

“Yes, I know, and can sing this song.”

Relieved, Jean asked her if she would be able to demonstrate, but was cut off by her father. Irritated and angered, the man pulled Jean out of the room and went on to berate him, laying emphasis on Melina’s condition, which had been ongoing for several months, and her exhausted state. After he was done, Mr Whistler motioned for Jean to leave. However, while on the receiving end of the anger, Jean had been thinking about ways to keep in contact and to help the two. He offered an apology and his services to the father, reasoning that if she had been sick for more than a few months her current GP might not have an answer, and that he could help as he had the resources to do so. The conflict in Mr Whistler’s mind was plain on his face as he struggled to answer. In the end, desperation won, as he accepted Jean’s proposal.

When Desmond returned home, he immersed himself in assorted medical books in his study late into the night. His late father, who had enjoyed reading all kinds of books in different fields, had previously owned most of them. Desmond knew that this was not the time to get emotional, knew that he should be searching for an indicator of a symptom similar to the ailing girl he saw today but he couldn’t stop himself from thinking of his father. I need to be critical, I need to stop remembering them and concentrate on the letters on the book in front of me.  His mantra was of no use as the words swam in front of his eyes, making it harder to focus. In the end, he was reduced to a ball in his chair as if he could shrink and disappear if he hunched into himself.

_I miss you, mother, father. I miss you so much._

—∮—

The following week, Desmond received a letter from the excavation team at the Golden Garden dig site. It stated that nothing of relevance had been found, no gold and only a lot of silver, so they were withdrawing from the town. This both worried and confused the archaeology professor; all the evidence pointed to the town, and they were all from reliable sources. However, the most important part was at the bottom. Skimming over flimsy excuses on why they stopped the project, Desmond’s eyes stopped at the one sentence that stood out.

‘…a spectral appearance that ravages the town…’

Unsettled, Desmond gathered up several recent copies of The London Times from the stack on his office floor. There was nothing about the town of mist in them. Something was wrong, and he was certain that there were precious few people who knows about the town’s current situation. What was happening there? Was the local police controlling the media from leaking the current situation to outsiders? Should he visit the town to see if everything is all right? These trepidations plagued Desmond even when he got home, and Celeste noticed his nervous state, asking him if something had happened. After their daughter went to bed, he confided in her about his fear for Misthallery and its residents.

“What about we all go to the town next week. Check if anything’s wrong with your own eyes.”

“What? No! What if there really is a danger present there? I don’t want you or Helen to be hurt!” Desmond was both surprised and shocked to hear his wife say those words. Keeping his family safe had always been his priority, and this time was no exception. However, his wife hushed him, reminding him that they would be safer with him rather than be apart from him for a prolonged time. And, she added after a beat of silence, didn’t he want to check up on that girl who helped him last time?

“Maybe I can call them and see if something has happened,” Desmond thought aloud. As Celeste agreed with him, he decided to do that the next day. When they did what they planned, however, they were greeted with silence on the other end of the line.

“Perhaps we can try another number?” Suggested Celeste after the third failed attempt. Though the two of them went through every number available in Misthallery, none responded. After that, Desmond didn’t have much choices left, so he accepted Celeste’s proposal that they all go there together—but only if they take up disguises. The next weekend, the four of them including Raymond were speeding along to the town in a carriage, having successfully evaded the prying eyes of Targent. While Raymond secured the carriage, the three Sycamores set out for the town, promising to meet up with him at the mouth of the bridge.

From afar, Misthallery looked like there was nothing wrong. It was only when they crossed the bridge to Grand Bridge Street did it become apparent that there was something off. There were hardly any people there, and abandoned carts with clothes and other trinkets were scattered about, which gave off a foreboding air. A terrible thought struck Desmond then, the eerie silence overlapping with the emptiness of the ghost town he had encountered a few weeks ago. He hurried to the twin bridges, taking the left route to the market, and along the road had to promise his daughter that they would come back to the old lady selling sweets on the streets. Once they were close to the mouth of the market, he pulled off his disguise, transforming into his original self once again, for Marilyn didn’t know of his other identity. Celeste and Helen did the same, returning to their real identities. The relief he felt when he saw the market bustling with energy as usual was indescribable.

“Mr Sycamore!” A shout rang out from one of the biggest stalls. Marilyn was there, waving to him with a grin on her face. Smiling back, Desmond approached the girl.

“Hello, Marilyn. How have you been?”

“Oh, chipper. But, you know, it isn’t real safe here. There’s a giant roaming the streets at night, and then there’s the calamity witch.”

“A witch?” Helen piped up from behind Desmond. The older girl peered at the curious shadow and glanced at both Desmond and Celeste standing over her.

“That your daughter? She’s a real cutie, Mr Sycamore. And you must be his wife! Nice to meet you, I’m Marilyn.” She stuck out her hand, which his wife and daughter both shook. The introductions done, Marilyn returned to the explanation she had been doing.

“A mark’s been popping up all around town. It’s this red thingy that looks kinda creepy. Some folks think it was Arianna’s doing, but I dunno, the girl looked too twig-y to do things like that.”

“And the giant?” Desmond prompted the girl after storing the information away in his head; it was something he might have to look into at a later date.

“Oh yeah, the spectre.” Marilyn leaned close as if she was telling a ghost story. “Listen up, because this legend is a good one.

“There was a town here back in the ancient times, too. But once a group of bandits tried to pillage the town, and they were wreaking havoc all around the place. And in the middle of the chaos, a scared girl decided to play her flute to calm the madness. Or to calm her mind, I don’t know which is right. Anyway, right then a huge spectre appeared in the air above her. I would’ve been scared out of my mind, but this girl begged the spectre to off the thieves, and it complied, and then disappeared.”

“Doesn’t that imply that the spectre is benevolent?” Celeste queried after digesting the story. Marilyn nodded with a frown scrunching up her face.

“Yeah, right? Crow reckons that the calamity witch is controlling the spectre, making it listen to her, but I don’t think so. That girl is way too weak to pull off a feat like this, but then she’s cooped up in that big manor. We wouldn’t know if she’s doing summat up there.”

Arianna and Crow, these two characters might be helpful in solving this mystery of witches and spectres. Filing away the information for later, Desmond asked her if there was a discreet place around here where one could stay without having to disclose their personal information, and why the phone was not working.

“Oh right, the spectre’s attack destroyed the phone lines around town. They say that it’ll take at least three weeks to get it back into shape. And somewhere to stay? Dunno if there’s any, but I’ll ask around.”

“Would you? Thank you so much!” Celeste exclaimed, Helen echoing her gratitude. Grinning in a sheepish way, Marilyn accepted the thanks—and offered them a drink each, for the season’s apples were ripe, and Helen there looks quite thirsty, doesn’t she want something to drink? Chuckling, Desmond paid for a drink for each of them. After they finished the drinks, the three set out on their way back to the main bridge, donning their disguises once more—Desmond had seen the tail end of the Targent outfit midst the crowd at the market, and he didn’t want to take any chances. Now that she had had something to drink, Helen ignored the sweets lady when they passed by her again. Once they were at the bridge, Desmond was ready to cross the right one when his wife pointed out the barrier made by entangled ropes.

“Hmph. Child’s play, but I wonder who set this up…” Spotting the weak point in the twines, he pulled out a small knife, cutting away one bond and dismantling the entire structure. They were about to cross the bridge when a big “STOP!” rang out behind them. An officer approached them with a frown on his face.

“My apologies, sir, but this town is closed to visitors. I don’t know how you even got here, but kindly leave.”

“I beg your pardon?” Desmond asked in a mild voice. The constable winced as it the words stung him, but still; he repeated his words that they were not welcome.

“And why is that?”

“We… we have a strange phenomenon going around in town, sir. It is a very dangerous situation, and our Chief has ordered us to stop any visitors from coming to town due to the hazard present.”

The constable refused to respond to any more questions, instead herding them from the bridge. The three had no choice but to comply, retreating from the town.

“So what do we do now?” Celeste asked, glancing at Desmond, who in response simply held up his mask and cloak. Celeste grinned.

“Knew you would do that.”

Three days later, Desmond had received two weeks’ worth of leave from Dean Winchester for ‘family matters’; he was getting better at the lying thing since he started using the Jean Descolé role more often. Under the cover of night, the family returned to the town, opting to sneak past the dozing, no, fast-asleep guard in Grand Bridge Street. The dark covered up their footsteps that led to the market, where they settled among the trees. As sunrise was only about an hour or two away, Desmond chose to wait for a certain girl he was sure that would be opening up her stall earlier than others. His guess was right, for the wild hair that could only belong to Marilyn bobbed along the streets, approaching her stall. He called out to her in a low tone, hoping that she heard him.

“Mr Sycamore! Thought you left; nobody knew where you went.”

“I’m sorry for disappearing like that, Marilyn, but we had to; the town is apparently in lockdown.”

As he said those words, Desmond hoped that she wouldn’t ask how he got in here if he had been banned. Thankfully, Marilyn ignored the small slip-up.

“Oh. Well, I got a room for you if you’re still interested?”

“Of course, thank you so much. How can I ever repay you?”

“Well, for starters by buying more from me?” The two both chuckled after she said that. “Anyway, we had a leftover room in the west side that got emptied a few weeks ago. The place’s a bit shabby, but nobody really goes there except for the people who live there so I figure you’ll be all right.”

When he received the key and directions to the room Marilyn got for him, Desmond went to alert Raymond, who woke up his wife and daughter who were fast asleep on a makeshift blanket. They moved to the west side and settled in the place; it was quite clean and cosy despite its initial scruffiness. While his butler helped his wife furnish the room into a more habitable place, Desmond headed out once more to a vantage point to scout out the other residents as the town began to wake up. Most were a lively bunch that filled the air with chatter; he didn’t see a single Targent member amongst the crowd. Of course, they could’ve been hiding, but he was going to give the benefit of doubt for once. It wouldn’t hurt to be careful, though, so he put on his disguise and transformed into Jean. His first goal was to sneak into the town itself to see the damage and, if possible, gather information about the failed dig. The botched excavation was worrying enough even without this whole spectre business and witchery adding to the confusion. He would find the point where it all went wrong and try to rectify mistakes if they were present. In addition, if members of Targent were still lurking about, he would need to see why they were loitering around.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter: Showdown in Misthallery!


	8. Misthallery's Mysteries

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Desmond digs into Misthallery's secrets. Jean slowly gains more power.

Sneaking into the main part of Misthallery had been easy enough; Jean blended into the crowd, keeping his profile low when he crossed the rickety bridge into town. From the very entrance, the sight of a demolished house greeted him, damaged beyond repair so that it would be faster to rebuild it from scratch than to try to patch it up. There, on the front door of the house, was a red mark painted upon it, two dots in the upper and lower space of an elongated ‘X’. So this was the witch’s mark, Jean mused as he produced a notebook and did a quick sketch of the symbol. Without any more evidence, though, there was little more that he could do to investigate, so he left the destroyed house and melted into the shadows of the town.

Observing various places of the town, Jean could see that it was much worse for wear than the last time he had been here: the ground was unstable, for once, and he could see that surface subsidence had occurred in several places, far too much for his liking. He passed by several more wrecked houses and he hadn’t even reached the centre of the town. People were milling about, some salvaging what they could from their former homes and some packing up their belongings. From what he could glean from the hushed whispers, there was an oracle in town, and he—or she —was predicting the next spectre attack, which saved quite a lot of lives. So now, there were three mysteries: the spectre, the witch and the oracle. Wondering what this would all lead to, Jean continued his scouting of the town.

The second day, he travelled up to the excavation site, intent on seeing what was left of the failed project. As he walked deep into the ravine, evading the eye of a lone researcher, he found the remains quite disturbing. The marks he had found were intact, but the ground… There was no sign of more relics that related to the Azran, none at all from his cursory glance. The researchers had done a stellar job, one so good that even he had to admit that maybe the Azran did not have any prevalence in this area eons ago, and that the marks he had found were there by some kind of accident. With a heavy heart, Jean retired to his room, vowing to focus on and solve the puzzle of the spectre from now on.

On the fourth day, he got lucky, catching the tail end of a familiar shade of blue. Hot on the unassuming Targent agent’s trail, Jean weaved in and out of the shadows of silent houses, tracking them to the east side of the town, where there was a previously abandoned factory. It was said that the late Mr Barde shut it down because it might compromise his daughter’s health, despite the initial objections of the local townspeople and his long-time friend Clark Triton. When Desmond arrived at the entrance of the place, however, he found that the factory was on lockdown, which was strange considering the fact that it had been closed for almost a decade. He could faintly hear the familiar sound of machines whirring away inside the factory, which is would have been impossible to catch if he did not know a thing about machinery. The hulking man in front of the gates was muttering to himself, cutting away the dead leaves and vines from them. Deciding to leave the man in his own little world, Jean melted back into the shadows. He had a nagging feeling that the ‘witch’ had more to do with the disquiet in Misthallery, more so than he had initially thought. Deciding to see the fabled witch for himself the next day, he traced his footsteps back to the main square and returned to the small room he was staying in.

The next day he set out early to the ominous castle-like house on the hilltop, the Barde Manor. On his way up, he saw a small man with magnificent white hair pass by on a boat, rowing downstream. Contemplating the purity of the white hair of which he had never seen the likes of, Jean passed the gates and entered an unkempt garden with the plants growing wild. Though it was still morning, not much light filtered into the place, giving a gloomy feel to the place. Overgrown trees almost formed a forest, and the sorry excuse of a windmill contributed to the desolateness. It didn’t seem like anybody would live here on their own accord, especially a child. Desmond wished to gather some more information before he plunged on—after all, it wouldn’t hurt to have more information than others did if he had to enter that place. Jean pressed on.

Up close, the manor was even more menacing than seen far away. Moss and fern that covered several parts of the house screamed out the condition of the worn house; whoever lived here, most likely the girl and her caretaker was in no state to clear the outside of the place. Approaching the house Jean knocked on the door, as there was no other way to alert the people inside of his presence, stating his name and purpose. The door went unanswered; he tried several more times, only to fail to draw out a response from the inhabitants. Dispirited, but not completely shot down, he stepped down from the front door and circled the base, searching for another way of entrance. The sound of an aged voice yelling at him to get off the mistress’ property, that she has no interest in the likes of him reached him before the man in question did himself. Surprised and flustered, Jean left the premises, blending in with the darkness that the trees made once more. From there, he spied the old man swinging his fists in his general direction, then entering the house with groceries in hand, slamming the door behind him. This behaviour he found both confusing and suspicious: what reason did the old man have to chase him away? Was there no other person in the employment of the ‘mistress’ of the house? Was she the only person to live in the house besides the old man? Questions filled his mind as Jean retreated for the moment; he vowed to find out what was going on in Barde Manor, what had become of the child of the late Mr Barde, and who the mysterious man was.

The rest of the day was spent fishing for clues; as the old man was last seen with a bag of groceries, his first stop was the markets of Misthallery. Marilyn was more than happy to answer his question when he asked her who the man was.

“Seamus, his name is. He’s the gardener of Barde Manor.”

“The gardener? The garden of the house is overgrown, and no sign of care had been made in recent times.”

“I dunno, Mr Sycamore. But he’s been that for ages. Ask the other guys ’round here; they’ll all say the same thing.”

As Marilyn had said, the other vendors knew the same thing about Seamus. A gardener that doesn’t do his job, but instead, what the butler of the house should do… It was now apparent that there was no one other than Seamus in that house who was left to care for the mistress or Arianna Barde if his deductions were right. The girl must have been quite sick, if her father had to shut down a factory and only Seamus regularly frequented the town, doing everything for her. Further probing from one of the merchants, a previous employee at the manor, confirmed this: the late mayor had fired his servants one by one as the years passed. The man was notorious for his toxicity towards his subordinates in general, and by the time he died, there were few left in his service. It was from this woman that he became aware of another person in the household, and the gossip surrounding the supposed witch.

“That girl had a brother, Tony if I remember right. Right after Mr Barde died the grapevine was spreading like mad, speculating who killed him; a lot of us, I’m ashamed to say, were not secret with our resentment toward the deceased man. He might have been a good father, but he was a bad landlord. Anyway, we badmouthed him, and Arianna ran from us. We were worried, of course, but she never came down from that house…And then the Witch’s Mark started to appear.” Here she took a deep breath, then resumed speaking as if somebody was chasing her. “We didn’t think of it much, but a few months before this giant something started destroying our homes and it went for the houses with the Witch’s Mark.”

“And you assumed that Arianna was the witch?”

“Well, who else could it be? Personally, I don’t want to blame her, but the mark only appears on houses that insulted her father. They say that she’s controlling the spectre to curse the people who dare speaks ill of him.”

Jean thanked her and left the market to his room to think over the facts he had obtained. There was no arguing that the flute he had obtained in the four ruins was the flute in the legends of Misthallery, and for this reason only had he brought it here. If the legends were true, then the girl was not what she seemed to be, and the ‘flute’ that she seemed to have been using was a fluke. As soon as he opened the door to the room, however, a great shout went up from outside of the window. Celeste and Helen hurried to the windowsill, where a policeman was running around, alerting people that the spectre was going to appear tonight, near Central Pier. Jean-Desmond shouted down to ask him how he knew that, but was ignored as the man sped away, possibly to warn other people. His wife turned to look him in the eye.

“You’re going to go to see it.” It was a statement, not a question, and Desmond felt no need to confirm it; in their hearts, both knew what was going to happen. Celeste kissed him goodbye while Helen asked her father where he was going from below her mother. Explaining the bare minimum to her, Desmond left in a hurry, for the sun was already setting and night was not far away.

As the dark deepened, Jean concealed himself in the shadows of the houses that lined the street. Any moment now, this spectre would appear, and he would see the real version of what had happened. Just in case, he had concealed a shortsword in the folds of his cape, safe from prying eyes by his cloak. Then, as he dared to peek out from his hiding point, he noticed something abnormal: mist was congealing around his ankles, falling in thick waves and obscuring his vision. Soon the street was full of the grey mass so that it was hard discerning things from one another. Sensing danger, Jean drew his sword and prepared for battle; as he did so, a great crashing sound reverberated in the place and a dark mass appeared, thrashing and blundering into buildings.

To Jean’s eyes, the spectre didn’t seem to be behaving with a specific purpose in mind; rather, it was wandering without a goal, laying destruction in its path. A stomp, and a sudden shadow over his head alerted Jean to the spectre’s presence, and he shrunk back with his sword out, ready to defend himself. To his immense relief he was not discovered nor hurt, for the spectre went straight past his hideout and stumbled along the road. Rising to his feet, Jean followed it from a safe distance, deadening his footsteps so as to not make himself known, but stopped when a certain sound echoed, a sound that was burned into his mind. The melody was similar to the ones he had discovered in the ruins, and the instrument was that of a flute, or at least he thought it was. It came from everywhere at once, and all of a sudden, a terrible cry rose from the mass. During its rampage, it had moved close to the water, and with another squeal, the spectre fell into the stream, splashing the contents around. Right before the thing disappeared underwater Jean strained to catch a glimpse at it, and saw the shape diverge into two figures. The ripples disappeared in seconds, so he wasn’t sure of what he saw, but this spectre had more to it that he had expected it to have, and a new mystery had been added to the pile. Arianna Barde was the first to come to his mind after his family, who he comforted by returning home to reassure them of his safety.

“Found anything good?” Celeste murmured into his ears once he got home and received a bone-crushing hug from her (Helen was already asleep). The unearthly sounds and vibrations had reached the market, and she told him that she and Raymond had spent the better part of the night comforting each other, waiting for him to return. Taking off his clothes, Desmond relayed his findings to her, ending with his thought that the manor grounds must be searched again for more hints. His wife agreed, adding her bit to his plans. She had done her own snooping, and found out that the oracle was relaying information about the attacks to the police. Following her advice, Jean headed over to the police station of Misthallery first thing in the morning the next day with his sword strapped to his hip and some smoke bombs in his pocket—one could never be too prepared. Her logic was sound: as the police, and in turn the oracle had alerted people of the attack, they must somehow know about the spectre or at least how to predict the attacks. Discovering the relations between the two would be the key to solving two of the three mysteries present in the town. When a policeman approached the guard standing outside the main building, he moved his hiding place to somewhere near them, hoping to catch their conversation.

“How is everything near Central Pier?”

“No injuries or deaths, sir. We managed to get everyone out before the spectre struck.”

“Humph, that oracle is quite helpful. Remember me to thank the Chief for having a connection with this person.”

Jean had to pull back at this point, surprised by this titbit. The Chief? Surely, he didn’t mean the fat imbecile he met a year ago? As he couldn’t enter the station itself without being noticed, he strained to hear their conversation as the pair stepped into the building.

“So, sir, who do you suppose the person might be? This so-called oracle, I mean.”

“Don’t ask me, I have no idea either. But I’d wager that the mayor might have some kind of link to them, because I overheard the Chief having a conversation with Mr Noble about the next appearance.”

With that comment, the two disappeared inside the building, but Jean had heard enough. The visit to Arianna would have to wait, for he had business at the Triton household. Turning around he made a beeline to the mayor’s house secluded in the corner of the town: hidden in the thicket of trees, the house provided several vantage points for spying. He was in luck today, for the second he settled in, a person clad in Targent blue approached the household and entered without knocking. Desmond wouldn’t have dared to intrude, even if it would help his investigations. Jean had no such worries, and after looking around for hidden eyes, made it to the walls of the house without detection. Voices floated out of the window on the first floor, which was open by a slight margin. The raised voices were loud enough so that Jean could hear them by standing as close as he could to the window without risking exposure.

“…nothing, Triton! At this rate, we’ll never find it! Are you doing your best?”

“I’ve told you people countless times before—I am doing all I can, but you must stop this madness! You’ll dig up the whole town.”

“That will be our decision to make. Or is your missing wife not an incentive enough to follow our orders? If that’s the case, there’s always that little boy of yours, the ‘oracle’, as people call him. I might have to stop your butler from going out with his supposed predictions.”

Triton’s anguished voice pleading with the unknown man to stay away from his son struck Jean’s heart. The other man’s reply that it was all on him, and that they needed the mayor’s expertise in geography, climate and soil of Misthallery barely registered in his mind. He supposed that the man speaking to Triton was the Targent agent that he had seen entering the house moments before; he could infer no other answer from the shard of the dialogue. However, new mysteries presented themselves from the talk, things that he would never have known had he not eavesdropped on the conversation. It seemed like the spectre in town had a source, according to the talk. Somehow, digging is involved, and Targent was intent on finding something. Also, Triton’s wife was missing. When his thought reached that point, a lightbulb went off in his head. An obvious answer was there all the time and he had failed to make the connection: Targent had seen his paper about the possibility of the Golden Garden in Misthallery, and had made the decision to take it upon themselves to see if his theory was true. The fact about the oracle was of no vital importance now, as he had more than enough information.

The puzzle pieces were almost complete now—Targent had conspired with the Chief of Police, possibly enticing the brute of a man with money and fame. When they found out that Clark Triton was knowledgeable in Misthallery’s geological makeup, they found a way to make him compliant, and one that was natural and unassuming. After they accomplished their objective, they turned to their true goal: finding the Garden.  They began digging up the town in search of the elusive relic, and when Triton objected, made his wife go missing. The ‘Spectre’ was in fact Targent trying to excavate the Garden themselves! Arianna and the witch had nothing to do with the spectre, or at least it seemed so. If his theory that Targent was using an excavation machine was correct, then there was only one place where constructing something of that scale was possible. Jean took flight from the Triton house, heading to the not-quite abandoned factory. There must be a way in, or it wouldn’t be functioning right now.

The iron gates were shut tight, and the walls were as high as ever, looming above his height. However, as he ventured into the trees and passed by some rickety houses, a sudden dip made itself known. It was connected to the brick barrier, and a rusted old blue door was smack in the middle of it. His heartbeat increasing by the second, Jean skidded down the slope to the door, hoping to find it open. His luck run out there, though, as the door refused to yield with a key or a lockpicker. There seemed to be a combination that he had to solve on the door, but it was one that he had no key to. Stumped for the first time, Jean kicked the door and almost immediately regretted it, as he ended up with a sore foot and footsteps from inside; someone had been alerted to his presence by his foolishness. Jean got up and was on the verge of fleeing when an idea struck him; there were enough ingredients nearby to make a simple contraption. When he finished the thing, he left it in front of the door and disappeared from sight. Seconds later, the door opened, showing a man with considerable bulk. He peered around, searching for the person who dared to come across the door. When he found nothing, the man closed the door while grumbling about pesky animals. As soon as his face disappeared from the crack, Jean sprang out from his hiding place and hurried to the door. Just as he had expected, the man had neglected to check if the door had shut properly, and his contraption proved the fact—it was holding the door open by a crack. Seizing the chance, Jean slipped into the factory without making a single squeak. With deadened steps, he inched into the factory and hid behind the closest prop, for he could hear two voices talking in a low tone. The words were mashed together, so he couldn’t hear what they were saying, but soon footsteps sounded and the voices got further and further away. Letting out a breath of relief, Jean snuck a peek from his place.

The factory was a desolate place; but contrary to the surroundings, the machines inside were spotless clean; some were even shining from polish. Very strange for a place that was supposed to be shut down for a decade, Jean thought as he peered up the stairs ahead of him. The voices were now gone, but the door on the top of the stairs was gently swinging, and that was all he had to know before he pinpointed the next place he would have to go. After making sure nobody was there, Jean flew up the stairs and headed into the next room.

It was pitch-black the moment he shut the door; nothing was visible in the darkness that engulfed him. Luck was with him, though, as Jean pulled out a flashlight he had prepared for this reason.

Lighting it up, he managed to find his way out of the maze while meeting several dead ends and wincing whenever he stepped on something and it made a noise. When had got out, the first thing he had done was speed out the place to the exit from which sunlight was shining through. The road was connected to another room, a bit smaller this time—but with a person inside. This person was muttering to himself, walking around agitated and sometimes kicking a conveyor belt moving with some kind of metal on it.

“The crooks!” the man fumed. “Forcing me to make these machines against my will!” Another kick that resulted in the man hopping around holding his foot. “Argh! I hate them!”

Curiousness got hold of Jean, and he reached out to the small man despite knowing the danger it might entail.

“Excuse me, sir?”

“What? Who’s there?” The stout man swivelled around, suspicious of the voice that sounded from nowhere. Desmond would have shrunk into the shadows, but Jean stepped out into the light, meeting the man’s gaze with his hand on the hilt of his sword.

“If I may ask, sir, what kind of machines are being made here?”

“Oh, machines that shoot smoke into the air, machines that crawl—” the man stopped, and began backpedalling. “Er, no, I mean machines that do everyday stuff, like, ah, drills. That drills holes in things.”

“First, that description does not fit your words you uttered a second before. Second,” Jean walked over to the conveyor belt and peered at the machinery on it. “These things look nothing like a drill, or a part of it. Will you tell the truth now, or will you keep bluffing knowing that your cover is blown?”

“All right, all right!” The man threw up his hands, a scared look painted on his face. “I was sworn to secrecy. Don’t tell anybody about what I said, okay? And never mention these yobbos that are destroying the town with their secret plan. I never said anything!”

“Are you sure about that? You just told me quite a lot about this factory and the people doing this.”

“Can’t you see I’m jeopardizing my job not telling you all this? Who are you, anyway, barging in like this? Solve this puzzle and I’ll see if I can tell you anything!”

The puzzle was laughably easy for him; the man ended up wiping away his tears while explaining to Jean about his precious steam engines and his position as Chief Engineer a few years ago. Swallowing the many snarky replies that resonated in his mind, Jean asked him once more about the machines manufactured in the factory, and the operators. This time, he got a much clearer answer than before, although it was still in the form of firm denial.

“They said I couldn’t tell anyone that they are making steam machines here. And that I should never tell somebody that there are other machines at work here that conjures mist. I’ll never say that the red and blue buttons on that machine operates it, either. Or hint about the thing beyond the opening in the assembly line!”

Jean pulled back, thanking the man for his time. The engineer replied by pretending to not notice him; that was good enough, he supposed as he pushed the buttons and stopped the conveyor belt. Slipping through the opening, he soon found himself hiding in the shadows while several men already inside quarrelled about something. The argument ended in a sudden outburst by the loudest man slamming his foot down on the floor.

“You saying that somebody broke in here and you haven’t found them yet? What kind of an idiot are you? Turn this place upside down if you have to, but find that person and bring them to me! I’ll question them myself!”

A great stampede to the opening issued as soon as the man stopped shouting. Alarmed by the noise, Jean retreated, minding his steps as he backed out of the conveyor belt entrance and dashed to the exit. He didn’t get that far before somebody hollered out “There he is! Get him!” from behind him, and the feet pounding the ground got ever closer. The second to last entrance was only a few metres away; he was so close to escaping when a shutter came down, barring his escape. Whirling around, Jean drew his sword with a flourish; the men stopped in a half-circle, eyeing it with wary faces.

“Stand back,” he warned, taking a step towards them, “and open this door. I will not hesitate to fight my way out if you do not do so.”

“Oh, will you?” The loud man shouldered his way to the front, standing in front of Jean, posture fitted to an arrogant king. “If you haven’t noticed, laddie, there are seven of us and one of you, not to mention that I have a gun. You’re outnumbered big time here. Give up and come quietly, then maybe we won’t have to resort to drastic measures.”

Drastic measures, Jean mused. There was one last card he had in his pockets, one that he had tried to use as a last option. Keeping his eyes on the men, he reached inside his suit pocket and drew out three white balls, going unnoticed thanks to his cloak. Stepping forth on sure footing, he advanced, sending the men stumbling back. The leader brought out his pistol from its holster, aiming it with shaking hands. Jean let a slight smile show on his face.

“It seems the time has come for our farewell.”

With those words, he threw down the smoke bombs at his feet, sheathing his sword at the same time. Chaos ensued as the thick white smoke obscured everyone’s vision except for Jean, who had vaulted over the shortest obstacle the second he released the bombs. He exited the main building by the third entrance, finding enough footage near the walls to climb over the bricks. Faint yells from afar rang in his ears as he hastened to the forest, finding his way out in quick succession. The autumn air brushed by his mask as he slowed down, catching his breath on the town’s outskirts. What he did was a risk, but a risk well taken: even the most wild of guesses would have deduced the spectre’s identity right with the information he had now. Though he had failed in checking the form that the spectre had taken, the fact the thick fog that appeared the other night was man-made was another clue. However, this did not explain the spectre’s behaviour the other night. Why did it thrash around so much if it was an excavation machine? What was the screech that he heard? The sound was not something a machine could make: it was from a living creature. But what could it have been? What kind of animal could have been large enough to fight against the mechanism, and could have made such a painful, sad scream?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry for the delay! School and some other business had kept me busy for nearly two weeks - I barely had the time to finish this chapterT.T


	9. The Truth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The events of Last Specter(Spectre's Call) commence.
> 
> WARNING: Mental breakdowns, threatening, one guy falling into a flood

Two additional days had passed since the discovery of the factory. During that time, another attack had happened, though he had been unable to catch the culprit red-handed again. In addition, Desmond tried numerous times to find a way to sneak in the factory, but a guard was always present at the back door whenever he tried to get in there. Undeterred, he turned his attention to the Triton household, where the Targent agent he saw that day frequented. While he did all that, he also tried to spend more time with his family, as he valued them more than anything and staying with them was one of the things he truly enjoyed in his life. However, this all changed when another newcomer entered town, a newcomer wearing a top hat with a woman clad in yellow at his side.

Desmond had to stop himself from calling out to his brother as he watched the two enter the Triton’s from the surrounding greenery. His mind was in turmoil as he struggled to find a reason why Hershel would be here, why now, why all of a sudden. Were the two friends? Had Triton somehow sent for help? Then, why send for his brother? Why? _Why?_ His fingers drummed on the hilt of his sword, contemplating the possible reason of his brother’s unexpected appearance in Misthallery. Last time he had checked, the police were still barring outsiders from coming into town. How, then, had he and the woman managed to come this far? Finding no answer to his questions, he sneaked to the house to see if he could hear any conversation between Hershel and the people inside. At least his brother had picked the timing well, as no Targent personnel had entered the house yet that day. The windows were all closed, but he could still hear some snippets of voices when he stood close enough.

“…too long, my friend!”

“…professor’s assistant…”

“…soon as I received your letter…”

A beat of silence, and Triton’s reply that he hadn’t sent the letter seemed to have confused Hershel. However, the next question and its answer cleared everything for Desm-Jean: somebody had impersonated Triton and sent a letter pleading for help to the other archaeology professor, afraid of the town’s destruction under the spectre’s attack. Triton’s answer, which detailed the legend of the spectre, was one that he had heard of before, so he tuned out for a moment, which, unfortunately, led to him almost missing out on Triton’s lament. Before he had a chance to react, Triton had asked Layton for help in dealing with the spectre, and the professor accepted without even thinking about it. Jean wanted to barge in and physically stop him from doing such a thing, but he knew he couldn’t do that; it was a risk that he wasn’t willing to take. The only thing he could do was to shadow the three people as they left the house: Layton, the yellow woman with a slight American accent, and a young boy in blue. The boy was the son, he presumed. Layton had been quite lucky up to this point: entering the town, talking with Triton without any surveillance, and now leaving the house with his son. This would surely lead to disaster if Targent found out about them, which was the most possible scenario should he continue his investigation of the spectre in town.

Desmond would never let Targent do anything to his brother or his companions. Somehow, he would find a way to protect them, even if he had to risk discovery or his own research up until now about the town. As he had vowed to protect his wife and daughter to death, he would give the same treatment to his brother.

Jean followed the three around town as they poked around, gathering information. They were more efficient than he had been the first day, as they could ask around, which was obviously a better way to collect evidence. The oracle, or rather, Targent had predicted another attack that night near the hotel, though the professor was buying the boy’s word about him being an oracle. And of course they had to get a room at the hotel that was as close as possible to the predicted attack place. The logical side of Jean saw the reason as clear as day: his other side, which was more Desmond than Jean, reacted badly to their decision.

For the time being, he would watch them before he returned to his family; at least he had taken several precautions when he came here so that Targent could not find them. These three were doing no such thing so that it was a miracle Targent had not yet spotted them. Granted, they did not know the presence of a bigger player, but still, they needed protection, and protection was what Jean would give. While he contemplated his choices in the shadows of the night, thick fog began to fall at his feet, soon shrouding the entire street in grey-white. Tensing, he waited for the spectre to show itself, praying that it would not harm the hotel and the people inside. The ground began to shake, and a dark shadow with two glowing, bulbous red eyes approached the hotel, digging long gashes in surrounding buildings with claws. It bashed its head in one of the houses, sending rubble everywhere, and slowly raised it again, looking straight at the hotel. Before Jean could do anything, a claw shot out, gouging out several of windows on the third floor, the floor that Jean knew Hershel was staying in for the night.

“Lay-Hershel!”

His heart in his mouth, Jean forgot himself as he hurried to the hotel door and flung it open, fearing the worst. His fears, however, were pacified soon by the voices the floor above.

“Are you okay, lad?”

“Yes, thank you, Joseph. Emmy, Luke, are you two all right?” The one he had been worrying about asserted his wellbeing with those two sentences. Desmond took a relieved breath and ducked out of the hotel, thanking the gods that Hershel was safe. He had thought about leaving him a memo to get out of this town, but knowing the professor, he wouldn’t comply for certain, so he abstained from doing that. The faint noise of the archaeology professor’s companions replying didn’t register in his mind as he returned to his own room, ignoring the spectre’s advance and the subsequent destruction mere seconds later. Celeste greeted him from the entrance, worry spreading over her features as she took in his hunched shoulders and tired stance. Caressing his face, she asked him what was wrong—and that broke the dam inside him as easily as wet paper would tear. He lost control of his emotions as he almost threw down his clothes, reverting to Desmond as he buried his face in Celeste’s neck.

“Celeste, I, I, Hershel is here, I can’t… I have to protect both of you, I don’t, I don’t know why he’s here, I—”

“Shhh,” Celeste patted his head in a comforting way, calming him by employing a method she had used countless times before. “Now don’t you worry, everything will turn out all right. You don’t _have_ to protect us, you know. Both Raymond and I can put up a good fight if it ever comes to that and I’m sure your brother won’t be confronted by them if they don’t know. Why is he even here, anyway?”

Desmond relayed his observances to his wife with a trembling voice. After digesting the information, Celeste remarked that this whole business seemed fishy to her; Desmond agreed, though his first concern was of their safety.

“He’ll be found out if he keeps up this behaviour,” whispered Desmond. “He sticks out with that hat and the investigation he’s doing. What should I do? I’ll give up my research, but I can’t be with you and him at the same time. I know Raymond has been excellent in terms of keeping you safe, but still…”

Celeste cut him off with a sigh. “To tell the truth, I’d rather you do nothing and stay put with us. But, I know you would go stir-crazy, and it wouldn’t do anything against this situation.” Here, Desmond tried to intervene, but Celeste shushed him and continued talking. “Do whatever you want, Des. You’ll always have my full support unless it’s something I wouldn’t condone under any circumstance barring Helen’s impending death. Keep this in mind, though: there is a line that should not be crossed whatever you may have to pay. That’s all.”

Anguish and sorrow spilled out of Desmond in the form of tears as he apologized to his wife for putting them all in this situation. The guilt he had harboured for a long time gnawed at his mind, ever piling up, but still, his wife’s gesture warmed his heart. He knew the sacrifices they had made for him; sacrifices that he didn’t deserve, always putting them in harm’s way. He could only hold on to her and cry his regrets out, conveying his emotions to her.

When the sun rose the next day, Desmond placed a kiss on his sleeping daughter and his wife’s head and donned the hat and cloak. Before he set out, he also asked Raymond to set up a simple trigger he devised during the night, which would alert him if another person enters Misthallery. Jean set out to the marketplace, passing by the unopened stalls and heading to the bridge connected to town, assuming that the professor was still at the hotel. His guess was right, as the three didn’t leave the hotel until thirty minutes later, with the boy rubbing sleep out of his eyes. However, they headed straight to the south of the town, and when the bridge to the outside came into view, Jean began to hold a tiny bit of hope that Layton would leave, just like that. That particular piece of hope led to nothing as they took a sharp turn and headed along the other bridge that led straight to the market. Thrown off balance, Jean followed suit while keeping plenty of distance between them: the assistant kept looking back, as if she was aware of Jean following them. At least when they approached the market, her attention went to the candy lady and then to the colourful and diverse stalls, allowing Jean to follow them at a closer distance. Focused on them, he had missed the cloaked figure that appeared on the rooftop of a building. Only when the woman—Emmy?—gave a shout and began to track the figure did he look up and join the chase. After a long bout of running and finding the black figure in all kinds of impossible places, Jean stopped to catch his breath behind a stall. A kid was giving Layton something shaped like a coin, and moving along the streets, Jean could see that they were gathering more coins shaped like that. When four coins were collected, the group confronted the shadowy figure, which in turn led them to talk about a black market. Perking his ears, Jean tailed them to the northern side, where a boarded up hole turned out to be the secret entrance to the black market. Suppressing his excitement, he made use of the momentary lapse in the guard boy’s surveillance and slipped in after the three, quite a bit worried about Layton entering such a dangerous-sounding place with a woman and a boy at his side.

An underground cavern filled with all kinds of trinkets and merchandise, the black market was not what he had expected. The three people headed straight to the backside, meeting the person clad in black in a theatre. They began to question them, ultimately revealing the identity of the person. When Layton said that the Black Raven was not a single person, but children, Jean was surprised, not to say a little disbelieving. However, if his theory was true, it explained the inhumane speed and agility that he had witnessed a moment before. The Black Raven sighed, and pulled off his hood, revealing a boy in his teens. The boy, introducing himself as Crow, leader of the Black Ravens, led Layton and company to the back of the stage. Standing on the tip of it, Jean could hear them conversing inside: the Black Raven had sold a certain Mr Evan Barde ‘The Spectre’s Flute’ a year ago, him being the highest bidder. Crow said that no one had been to the manor in months, as bad things happen when people say ill of his daughter Arianna and townsfolk believe her to be a witch. Having heard enough, Jean returned to the ground while the boy wasn’t paying attention to the hole. He headed to the town ahead of the three, predicting their next stop to be Highyard Hill. His guess was not mistaken, as they appeared from the other end of the street. The boy, Triton’s son, stared at the gate and the jungle-like garden inside the askew doors, mouth open, but when the woman spoke out, he seemed to shake himself awake and lead the way up the stairs.

 The Triton boy—Luke—’s admittance that the garden used to be a better place before Evan Barde’s death was expected. Layton’s reaction to that was also a predictable one, as he crossed the road to the manor. The first sentence that Emmy spoke made Jean cringe; was she serious? Vintage Goth décor? He snorted from the background as Luke insisted that somebody lived here, though his voice got smaller and smaller. Meanwhile, Layton had his attention on somewhere else, and urged his companions to find the front door; the professor said that he had seen a shadow upstairs. They knocked, but no answer came forth, and Emmy was questioning the truth when the door opened, showing the aged face of Seamus.

“What do you young’uns want?”

Ever the gentleman, Layton introduced himself and inquired if Arianna was home. Seamus, in turn, reacted like the cranky gardener he was: he snapped at the threesome, asking them what business was it of theirs. The following questions and answers were of a similar vein, and after another turn of banter, Seamus shooed them out of the castle grounds.

The three thought aloud about the gardener and his vocation. Emmy supposed the fake gardener was holding Arianna hostage; she and Luke were all too eager to break into Barde Manor, which Layton pointed out. Jean agreed with him, but he sided with Emmy and Luke on this matter, though with rather different reasons: they wanted to check if Seamus was keeping the girl hostage. He, on the other hand, wasted to see, and if possible, question the girl if she was the calamity witch. In addition, there was another thing he noticed during their little talk: Seamus’ voice sounded a lot like a young boy imitating an adult’s one. Intent on solving both questions at once, he followed the trio into a smaller tower off to one side; while they investigated the staircases, he planted himself under it and waited for the three to solve the puzzle to open the door. Sure enough, after a great deal of exclamations and running around, a grinding sound announced the discovery of a hidden passage. After the footsteps faded away, Jean stood up and wasted no time in catching up to the three entering the manor.

A walk up a winding corridor led to the interior of the house, where Luke led them to Arianna’s bedroom. An array of toys were scattered along the front of the door, toy trains and cars that were quite unusual to be in a house with a girl and her gardener. There Jean remembered something he had heard a few days ago, that Arianna had a brother named Tony. These toys must be his, but then where was the boy? Where did he go while his sister was shunned by the town, secluded in a dilapidated manor like this? Jean stayed out of sight while the trio tried to talk to Arianna, but Seamus soon discovered them once again and as a result, he threw them out of the manor a second time. Paying attention to the gardener’s voice, Jean noticed the strangeness yet again; it was strangely young sounding to his ears. Something was nagging at the back of his mind, a fact that he had overlooked—what? What was it that he had not seen, that he had failed to perceive and thus, lost a clue?

“Think, Jean, think,” he muttered to himself, pacing while fingers tapping on the hilt of his sword. “Tony is Arianna’s brother, he hasn’t been seen yet, but there are toys around Arianna’s bedroom, so he is alive—where is he, then?”

Where the boy is. A sudden thought struck Jean: what if the boy was the gardener? It was an absurd thought, but highly possible when taking the facts into account. It explained both the strange tone of the man and the absence of the brother. But, surely not; he would have noticed the discrepancy between the real one and the fake if it were the truth. Shaking his head, Jean decided to follow Layton once more and left the house with its curious inhabitants.

On the way down to the town, he heard some of the town boys talking about the mayor’s son walking around with a man in a funny hat and a woman in yellow. According to the boys, they were headed to the market again. He had no choice but to follow their tracks to the market, but with a stroke of luck, he met them halfway down, talking about Seamus and a boy from Highyard Hill who cleaned out Aunt Taffy’s entire stack of candies. Jean smirked; he was spot on. The trio headed to the East District, where they found another, new Witch’s Mark—this time with a candy wrapper below it, a wrapper that looked like one of Aunt Taffy’s sweets. He and Layton reached their conclusion at the same time; he heard Layton say that they should return to Barde Manor, that he now knew the truth about the witch and the mysterious gardener. A bit slow, Layton, he thought to himself before catching sight of four men clad in blue, hidden in the shadows like him. There was no mistaking who they were, and what they were planning to do with the sacks they held in their hands. Gritting his teeth, Jean drew his sword and advanced toward the unassuming men as if a predator stalks its prey. Under no circumstances would he let them touch Layton while he was watching over the professor!

 “Having a fine day, gentlemen?”

Within two seconds flat, Jean had his sword against the closest man’s neck, poised to strike by the slightest movement. The other three started, mouths hanging open as they registered an unexpected presence, someone who had the aura of a person who would not hesitate to kill if the situation called for it. Jean scoffed at the sight of the gobsmacked Targent men, basking in their fear.

“I shall give you two choices. One, you leave your target alone and never interfere in his work in this town. Two, you continue with your job, and you fight through me and possibly die from combat. Mercy is not my strong point. Which do you choose?”

When no answer came forth, he slid the sword ever so closer to the man’s pulsing vein, earning a whimper from his captive, who, despite being at least twice the size and weight of Jean, was rendered helpless by the swordtip at his neck.

“If you haven’t noticed by now, this one shall be the first to go.”

That seemed to have done the trick: one by one, they held up their hands and backed away. After receiving confirmation that they would not try to attack him the moment he let his victim go did he release the man, who ran away alongside the others with his figurative tail between his legs. He knew that Targent as a group would never stop pursuing whatever prey they had set their sight on, but he could divert their attention from Layton if he stepped forward like this. At the very least, they would be interested in stopping their direct antagoniser than three people who were doing nothing suspicious on the surface.

…This wasn’t him. Desmond dropped his sword after the four were out of his sight, sinking to his knees and staring at his hands, hands that had been ready to slit another man’s throat a second ago. What had taken over him? Threatening others for his goal, even if they were his enemies, was not what he was planning to do. This—he wasn’t a killer. Or was he? What had he been thinking when he decided to jump them? Had he planned to go through his threats if things went wrong? Desmond glanced between the discarded sword and his own hands, hands that were shaking the more he looked at them. The mask and hat, which had fitted him like a second skin, now felt a tad uncomfortable, as if he had borrowed it from someone else. Taking them off in a sudden bout of uncertainty, he stood there, lost in his thoughts.

“Hershel…” Desmond muttered aloud, remembering his brother. Highyard Hill was not that far if he hurried up the slope. Donning his costume with a certain reluctance, he set off on a brisk pace toward Barde Manor.

When he arrived at the house and headed over to the lakeshore, Layton was already talking with two children who looked like they were brother and sister. The little boy was holding a costume with lots of white hair: Seamus. So the boy _was_ pretending to be the gardener, Jean mused while concentrating on their words. They were talking about the spectre, but the siblings refused to speak more of it, instead asking the trio to leave. After leaving the premise, Luke spoke words with a rather deep meaning, like how the spectre destroys the very fabric of families, and when filled with fear people’s hearts go cold. It was the voice of a boy who had gone through too much at a young age, and Jean remembered the conversation he had heard back at the Triton house, that Triton’s wife was being held hostage. The father must have been forced to keep distance from his son to ensure his safety—and the son knew nothing of it. Jean clenched his fists. Targent was destroying another family, as they had tried to do to him, and it kindled a new hatred for the group in him. Consumed in his thoughts, he failed to hear more than half of the tale Luke was telling to the two adults about Evan Barde’s death.

“Arianna was never the same after that day.” Luke spoke, staring off into the distance. “It wasn’t long before the spectre began appearing.”

Layton sympathised with the boy, telling him that they would need to access the police reports surrounding Barde’s death to solve the mystery. After a brief excursion to the local police, his assistant took the road back to London while Layton and the boy remained in the town. Jean debated as to whether to help the girl get out or aid the remaining two, but it was a question whose answer he had already decided long before it had been proposed. Desmond returned to the marketplace, intent on catching up with his wife and daughter, whom he had barely seen these few days. He would know when the girl returned, and besides, he had already seen the excavation site. Better to rest for a brief second than do the same thing over.

“Daddy!” His daughter jumped into his outstretched arms, smiling wide enough to light the whole world. Desmond spun the giggling girl around, laughing out loud for the first time in ages. It had been far too long since he had spent time with his daughter in the day, and he aimed to cherish it for as long as he could. He pulled Celeste into a hug, the happiness passing on to her and making her break out into a huge smile.

“You’re back early,” she observed. “What about the thing you had to do?”

“That can wait for a moment,” he replied, hoisting his daughter onto his shoulders and making her giggle in delight. “They would be focusing on the man with the mask and cape rather than the man with a top hat and two others.”

“Desmond… What exactly did you do?”

“Nothing serious, dearest,” Desmond said, trying to steady his shaking hands that came along with the memory of what he had almost done. “Nothing to worry about.”

 He couldn’t tell her about his guilty conscience right now. Maybe another time, maybe at night, but not now, not when his daughter was awake.

 The girl returned far quicker than he had expected, at sunset, triggering his trap along the way. He bade goodbye to his family and set off toward the town, reaching the library in a matter of minutes. Layton and the boy were waiting for her at the entrance, but there was another figure with the girl. Had the man followed her on his _legs_? Jean frowned at the man’s protruding chest hair, a detail that he would never wish to see upon another man. However, the man was an Inspector Grosky from Scotland Yard, and this put another wrench in Jean’s plans. Why, in the name of the Azran, did she have to call someone from Scotland Yard to the town? Were the guards at the gate of the town doing nothing? The other man, Grosky, raced off at a speed rarely seen in humans before Layton finished explaining, though, so Jean supposed he wouldn’t get in his way that much.

Overhearing the trio’s plan to go visit the police chief, Jean prayed for them to stop before Jakes got too suspicious of the three and try to hinder their research. However, Layton being Layton, he headed to the station, contrary to Jean’s silent willing. Reluctant to enter the building, and having no idea where the chief’s office was, Jean had no choice but to stay outside, waiting for them to reappear. When they did after a short amount of time, with identical unnerved expressions, his heart did a nervous flip. What had the Chief done to bring about such looks?

Emmy’s indignant voice fuming about Chief Jakes alerted him to the reason why: the chief wanted Layton out of Misthallery and off the case. Layton, of course, replied that they had a duty to seek the truth. They headed off to Triton’s house, and while the three were inside, Jean scouted the surroundings—and found another woman he hadn’t seen before. He considered shooing her off, but soon decided against it; he would be revealing himself far too much for his liking. This time, he couldn’t hear anything from the house, so he gave up early and turned to other things, like looking out for Targent. The trio took longer than he expected, but once they reappeared, he received all the explanations he could hope for.

“This, coupled with the spectre not being reported outside of Misthallery, troubles me. It would appear that somebody is manipulating information about these two events.”

Emmy’s excitement about this case unsettled him a bit, but Layton and Luke’s agreement about the culprit’s identity and the need to find out more than made up for that. He left the house to scout ahead; nothing seemed out of order and no blue clothes were near. Had Targent given up for real? The answer came to him a moment later in the form of an ambush.

“Gentlemen, I hope we’re not going to have any trouble here.”

Before he could react in a proper way, Emmy had already jumped into action: spinning, placing precise kicks to some specific parts he wouldn’t dare speak of, and cleaning the thugs up in a short amount of time. Jean was in a whirl of confusion as he tried to make sense of what just happened. There was only one conclusion that was possible: Jakes had jumped into the fray, and he wasn’t going to let the professor be until 24 hours had passed—he was trying to get rid of them as fast as possible. The corrupt piece of garbage that wasn’t worth the water of the sewers was becoming quite a bother. While he was contemplating ways to get rid of the chief himself, the Inspector from earlier arrived at the scene, announcing that he god a corporal lead on the spectre. Of course it was from Jakes, and the Inspector, indignant that he had been fed false information, zoomed away to somewhere else, once again cutting off the girl’s explanation. Layton asking the boy about the people who knew about who the oracle was, though, threw him off balance. It seemed like the professor was suspecting that Doland was also a conspirator. This time, he was off-point for once, but then he didn’t know about Targent.

“I now know that the spectre never strikes the same building twice.”

Predicting the next attack to be near Highyard Arch, Layton headed to the aforementioned place, with Luke explaining his method moments later when the boy saw the low water level. Jean remembered the Chief Engineer’s jumbled words about making a machine that conjures mist, and connected the dots: the spectre’s real self was obscured by the thick mist, provided from nearby streams. His thoughts ended when Luke produced a mouse from his pocket, though—apparently, the boy was able to talk with animals, a most curious ability he had never seen or heard of before. The conversation persevered, and…they were planning to evacuate the citizens on their own and what, lay a trap for the spectre? What was Layton thinking?

—∮—

A simple man with an ego that needs stroking before asking anything, Greppe was a bitter person waging war against Triton for taking the mayor seat. In his opinion, the man was quite childish, but he agreed to help evacuate the surrounding places as an authority figure of the place. Jean applauded the professor’s navigating skills in his mind as they left for the market, where the Black Ravens also agreed to aid the professor. In the meantime, he discovered more Targent agents and weeded them out by subtle threats; but judging by their looks and the annoyed glances, his interruptions were not going to last long enough for the three he was trying to protect. He’d abstained from opposing Targent—and Jakes, who was of course in cahoots with the group—in broad daylight, but the situation was starting to look like his interference was going to be needed.

Night approached, and Layton moved to the predicted place where the spectre was designated to appear. Jean looked around the nearest nooks and crannies for Targent members or Jakes’ thugs as the night deepened. If his guess was right, either one of them would have their minions nearby to help if things went wrong. As the music of the Spectre’s Flute played, and the ensuing uneven footsteps vibrated near the arch, a shadow flitted near the quiet houses. The townspeople had been all evacuated by Greppe, so there were only two choices left for the shadow’s identity. It crept deeper into the buildings, and Jean sneaked behind it, as if he was the Grim Reaper to harvest the poor sap’s soul—

And ran into a small group that consisted of a pudgy man and several men wearing hats resembling the local police. No, not resemble, identical: it was Jakes and the Misthallery police. He pulled back before any of them could notice his presence, heart running a mile a beat. By the looks of it, Jakes would try to intercept, or even arrest Layton if he happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. As if proving him right, after the spectre had passed by and the trembling receded, the group started to move with the cue of Luke calling out to Layton.

Not on his watch.

“You shall not touch him!”

Two sharp movements of his wrist, slamming the hilt of his sword into craniums, felled two of the poor men before they even knew it. While the rest panicked, having no idea where the attack was coming from, Jean knocked the rest out one by one, the hilt flashing and twirling, adrenaline flowing through his body like nectar. The few hits that landed on his body did nothing to dissuade him from his goal, though he had to try hard to avoid hurting any of the men with the blade part. His cloak flared, snapping and whirling from his movements. Jakes, unlike his subordinates, cowered and tried to flee from the scene. Jean was having none of that.

“Levin Jakes,” he snarled, abandoning the three left standing and sprinting after the obese man. Taking a running jump, he pounced upon the man, pinning him to the ground face first.

“L-let go o’ me, ya—”

“Shut your fat mouth, imbecile, and _listen_.”

Jakes fell silent after that. Jean continued, laying the flat side of his sword across the man’s flabby neck for extra measure, his voice a soft whisper.

“If you dare try to touch Layton again, I will know. I will be there, and you will dearly regret it. If you harm a hair on that man, you will know what to expect. This is my last warning. Do you understand?”

“I-last warning?” Sputtered Jakes. Jean sighed.

“You are in league with Targent, are you not? Do not assume that I have less knowledge than you about things going around here, you disgusting simpleton. I repeat: do you understand?”

“Y-yes, but who—”

“Let’s just say that I have a grudge against Targent.” Jean stood up, dusting himself off. Now that the adrenaline was wearing off, the aches were coming to him with full force. Adding to that, the men he had knocked out were coming round, and he felt the need to get out as quickly as he could. Abandoning the chief, he dashed to the outside, where another day was dawning. Emmy’s saying that she had heard something, and Layton’s response that maybe they should check it forced him to move, secluding himself in some groves as the three passed by, wincing as his left arm and back sent twinges of pain throughout his nerve system. Celeste would be so angry, he wryly thought as he eavesdropped on Jakes’ and Layton’s conversation.

“This is strange,” the archaeology professor muttered after the small talk. “We hadn’t alerted the police, yet they still are here.”

“That’s right!” the boy exclaimed. “And it’s too soon for it to be a patrol. What is Jakes doing out here, anyway? It’s as if he knew the spectre was going to be here!”

“This confirms my theory, but there is one more thing that we need to check before being sure. Luke, is there a place where machines as big as the spectre could be made?”

“There’s the old factory at the southern part of the town, but it’s been boarded up for ages. Er, professor—”

“That would do. We’ll have a quick bite on our way there.”

Hunger pangs shot through his stomach at the mention of food, something he hadn’t touched for the last twenty-four hours. After that particular exchange, though, the risk of attacks were getting ever higher, and he couldn’t risk Layton’s life to sate his hunger. To tell the truth, his genuine worry was about Layton being abducted; even Targent wouldn’t have the guts to murder a person in broad daylight.

“Come on, only a few more hours,” he muttered to himself, holding his abdomen and stumbling along the lines of houses. After the fight with Jakes and his minions, he hadn’t quite had a proper break, and the lack of rest was catching up with him, coupled with stabbing hunger that sent increasingly insistent signals to his head, making him feel a bit tizzy. Maybe he _should_ have something to eat before he did anything else. Looking down at his torn suit, Jean let out a sigh and decided that a change of clothes was in order; and besides, he had to see the three people he valued more than anything in his world.

When he reached their rented room, Celeste, already up and about, clapped her hand to her mouth when she set her eyes on him.

“Des, your clothes! What happened? Did you get into a fight?”

“Ah—”

Before he could reply, Celeste had marched up to him and snatched the mask and hat away, exposing his bare face. Desmond winced involuntarily, shying away from the exposure as if he was being burnt.

“You clothes are torn and rumpled, your posture is screaming ‘tired and hurt’, and you smell of blood. _Blood._ Desmond Theodore  Sycamore, you _will_ explain this situation to me right now.”

Desmond sighed. He would not be getting way with this, would he?

“No, you won’t. Look at you now, you’re saying your thoughts aloud! You haven’t done that since you were thirty and drunk. Come on, spill. What happened?”

“I don’t—” Desmond stopped, took a deep breath and continued, “I don’t know if I’m right or wrong anymore, love, I did something horrible—God, I threatened to _kill_ Targent members, I just, I just can’t keep doing this, I, I—”

“Shh, Des, calm down.” Celeste stroked his hair, dragging him to the couch and half-bullying him to lay down with his head on her lap. “Focus on my voice. It’s all right.”

It wasn’t right, Desmond wanted to shout out, it wasn’t right that he had almost killed the four and put the innocent policemen out of commission, it wasn’t right that he had done all that without even batting an eye. What had he become? Would he really do anything if it were for protecting his family and opposing Targent?

_Yes, you would, you would stoop down to the same level as they are on if you need to._

“No, I won’t,” Desmond mumbled, covering his face with his hands, “I’m not like them, I won’t be like them.”

“Des?”

_Don’t lie to yourself. You and I both know that’s not true. Your actions speak for themselves, don’t they?_

“No…”

“Des? Love? Dammit, did I trigger this?”

 _Oh, so you’re now pinning the fault on others. Quite convenient of you to have me to blame as if your conscience is clean, which we both know is not. You know I_ am _you, right? You can’t escape me. How can you, when I am you and you are I?_

Desmond couldn’t answer, his breath coming in short gasps and he didn’t want to, he never wanted to do all those things, but no, he had enjoyed the feel of being in power, he was the one who did it anyway, he was to blame, wasn’t he, cold blood running in him, and to add neglecting his family, being nothing but a burden, a failure—

“Des. Look at me. Now.”

His head jerked up, meeting Celeste’s steely gaze, which held a burning fire in its depths. She locked eyes with him, conveying her own emotions from those beautiful blue eyes of hers. Looking into her eyes was a strangely calming act; his raging emotions slowly died away to a flickering fire, and all of a sudden, he noticed that his hands were no longer shaking. He also noted the steaming cups of tea on the small table at his side. Raymond.

“God…I’m so sorry, Celeste, I’m sorry for treating you like this; you deserve better.”

“Oh, shut up, you overemotional idiot.” His wife ruffled his hair and set him upright; he could see the old mischievous smile playing on her lips, though it was tinged with a drop of sadness. “You did what you had to do, and there’s no sense crying over that. Now get on with your work and save the day, alright?”

“Alright.” Desmond managed a small smile, straightening up and downing the cup of tea. He gently took back the mask and hat, though that earned a bit of half-hearted protest from his wife and shrugged them on. Just in case, he also took the ancient ocarina, and taking a one final look at his wife, he stepped out into the light. His first step would be the old factory.

The small backdoor was swinging open when he got there; they were already here. With a growing sense of urgency, Desmond sped up, noting the absence of guards and the silence in the factory. As soon as he got through the giant pipe that served as the second entrance to the main building, though, he could hear raised voices and threats ringing in the warehouse that was the third ridge. Sensing a fight, he averted his original plan and headed for the many cracks in the wall, sidling through the gap. Emmy and a rather large man were circling around each other with Hershel and Luke back-to-back behind her, eyeing the large number of thugs in the vicinity, some of them holding Brownings. Desmond supressed a groan, drawing his sword and getting his smoke bombs ready. On the count of three…

“AAAAAH! I can’t see!”

While his unwitting victims panicked and made a general fool of themselves, Desmond pulled his brother and Luke outside then went inside for Emmy. Once they were safe, he dusted himself off—did nobody clean there anymore?—and checked them over.

“Are you all right?”

“Yes, yes we are—but who are you?”

Desmond sighed, and then assumed his Descolé persona. “Let’s say I have a vendetta against _them_.” He gestured in the general direction of the factory. “You wish to uncover the mystery of the spectre, _non_?”

“Yes!” This time, it was Luke who spoke up, face set in determination. “And if you—”

“Easy, young master, I just saved your neck.” Jean let out a long-suffering sigh and got ready for battle. “I shall hold down the fort. Go on and get out of here as fast as you can; this place is dangerous.”

“But—”

“He’s right, Luke,” Layton murmured, straightening up and patting the boy’s shoulder. “There’s nothing we can do here now, even with Emmy helping us; you saw those men and their weapons. And Emmy,” he sent a warning glance at his assistant, who was about to protest from the looks of it, “I admire your prowess and your ability, but even you have limits and we need you with us. There is one last mystery to uncover.”

“But what, professor?” The girl asked with wariness, her eyes trained on Jean.

“The other identity of the spectre… And the Spectre’s Flute. Come, now, we don’t have much time.”

As the three set to leave, Layton tipped his hat to Jean as a signal of thanks. Jean curtly nodded before focusing on the entrance to the third ridge; any moment, he would have to fight his way through the thugs. On cue, the iron gates flung open, and out came the thugs, each brandishing varying degrees of weaponry. The one at the head stuttered to a halt when he caught sight of Jean with his sword out.

“Hey, hey, wait, we ain’t gonna fight, right? You tell me where they went, and we-we’ll be on our merry way.”

“If you think I’ll let you pass, then you’re sadly mistaken.”

The rabble of men, even the ones with their guns out, panicked and scattered when he took a running leap at them, his trusty sword flashing in the sunlight. They were clearly inexperienced people; being so close to each other meant that there was a chance of friendly fire between them if somebody decided to start shooting. Throwing his cloak aside, he started to take down the men one by one, avoiding the increasingly desperate punches and kicks. However, taking care not to get the ocarina damaged resulted in injuries; flipping over a club that came flying out of nowhere, he careened into the path of another man who was using his rifle as a makeshift bat. The rifle struck his abdomen, winding him for a second and making him stumble backwards. The three left standing regrouped—five of them were lying on the ground, either knocked out or groaning from their wounds. Jean was breathing heavily; not much time had passed from the last fight he had been part of, and he was tired. Time to get out and see where Layton went. He snatched up his cloak from the ground, reattaching it with expert hands.

“Hey! Where d’ya think you’re going?”

Ignoring the beefy man’s shouts, Jean took off from the factory, focused on escaping and tracking Layton. Time was running out, and he had a good idea on where Layton went.

Barde Manor was further away than he had thought. Though he had tried his best to catch up with the three, he was still halfway up there when there was a commotion from the upper side of town. The sound of something squealing made him skitter to a halt, recognizing it from some nights before: it was the spectre—or the second spectre, in flesh and blood. As he got closer to the main square, it got louder and louder, signalling the creature’s presence there.

“Jakes!” The boy sounded desperate. “Jakes, stop, Arianna isn’t the witch!”

“Shut yer trap, kid. Ya don’ know anything!” Jakes turned to shout at Triton’s child. He was looking down on some kind of giant creature, with Arianna standing in front of it protectively. “I don’t see any other monsters that can smash buildings. And she kept it going by playing that accursed flute!”

“No, but…”

“Appearances can be deceiving,” mused the inspector from London. Why was he even here? “But deceiving appearances can also be deceiving, too.”

“Ain’t nuthin’ ’bout this girl that’d be deceiving,” Jakes retorted. Jean grit his teeth; if he could get a hand on that man, he would make him regret for his existence.

“Stop right there, Jakes!”

Layton ran into the clearing, coming to a halt next to Arianna. Though the boy was here, his assistant was nowhere in sight. Where had she gone?

“This is Loosha.” Layton announced, putting a calming hand on the animal. “Despite her size, she is a harmless creature.” As if to prove his point, he patted her, earning a somewhat sad keening and nuzzling. The crowd stirred, some exchanging confused glances. Jakes made to intervene, but Layton steamrollered over him.

“The true spectre was, however, _not_ Loosha,” Layton continued, turning around to look at the chief of Police. “She was only trying to stop the real thing. It was something far more sinister, far more dangerous than this marine animal could ever be—and it was being manufactured right under our noses, at the closed-up factory.”

“Closed-up? Ya must be jokin’!” Jakes looked incredulous, but it was clear he was bluffing, as his face turned a shade of green.

“Unfortunately not. I assume there was another person you worked with, chief.”

“Who _I_ worked with? Have a screw loose, eh, Layton?”

“No, Jakes.” Layton was a saint to put up with the man’s nonsense; Jean would’ve—no he wouldn’t. Jean took a few calming breaths to settle down and stop considering murderous thoughts, and missed part of the exchange between Layton and the two policemen, but he was able to catch the last bit of Layton’s tirade.

“-and you kept Brenda locked up under her own house. I believe Clark here can attest to that, especially since you were pressuring him to do something.” Here, Layton addressed the crowd. “What happened here was an elaborate setup for excavating the Golden Garden. About six months ago, there was an article on how the Golden Garden might be located in Misthallery. Hearing about this, the perpetrator decided to investigate himself, and used excavation machines to dig up the coveted artefacts. As you can see, this caused the ground to weaken. The spectre was a cover used to shield the machine’s real nature from prying eyes, and the fog was another thing to help the façade.”

“Lies! All lies!”

Barely sparing Jakes a glance, Layton said that he wasn’t finished and carried on. “The culprit needed Clark’s help for uncovering the Garden, but he was being uncooperative, so they decided to give him an incentive by kidnapping Brenda, who I believe is currently being held in the family cellar. Since then you, Chief Jakes, have been collaborating with them by covering up his tracks and closing this town off from the public.”

“I…I…” Jakes floundered, looking around wildly. All he got, though, was a sea of unkind frowns and some quite murderous faces. Even his own minions looked disgusted at their chief.

“You were there when the spectre stroke last night, though the oracle hadn’t warned you. That in itself would be extremely suspicious, wouldn’t it?”

The satisfaction Jean got from Jakes being so incompetent should probably be smaller than what he was feeling right now. However, the smirk disappeared when a somewhat familiar man stepped up, striding to the flustered man.

“You bloody idiot.” The man snarled, pushing Jakes roughly aside. “One job and you had to mess that up.”

“Hey! Ya don’t get to say that to my face!”

Jakes was ignored as the man turned to face Layton. His face was instantly recognizable; it was the redhead that Jean had had the misfortune to have met several times before.

“You did well, Layton. Quite well, in fact, so that I would be inclined to congratulate you if we weren’t on opposite sides.”

“So you admit to your crimes?”

“Whether I admit or not, you won’t be able to do anything to me.” The Targent agent grinned. Producing a handheld transceiver, he spoke into the device, keeping his eyes on Layton, who nimbly stepped aside. In his place, Grosky came into view, cuffing the man to himself with a loud ‘click’.

“You are under arrest, mister, for—”

“I don’t think so.”

The handcuffs were broken by another Targent man; Grosky gaped as the redhead distanced himself from the surrounding townspeople with quick steps. At that moment, a scream echoed in the square as the ground shook, signalling the approach of something heavy. Jean waited with baited breath: this could only be the spectre. He stared up at the _thing_ that came into view.

Wait—those machines were familiar…

The revelation hit him like a sledgehammer.

That was _his_ design.

Targent was using _his_ machines, _his_ excavation machines that Hastings stole over a year ago, the machines whose blueprints that had almost spelled his death, _and Targent was using them to uncover the Golden Garden._

White-hot fury seared through Jean as he jumped from the tree he was hiding in, cutting a path through the flabbergasted townspeople. His features were set in stone as he easily scaled the legs of the machine, clambering up into the area where the Targent agent was looking on, surrendering to Jean when he pulled out his sword. Thankfully, Targent hadn’t altered the dashboard—well, not a lot—and Jean was able to successfully lower the body part to the ground, kicking the hapless minion out when it was low enough.

“Who the bloody hell are you?” The redhead snarled out from the edge of the clearing. With an expression comparable to ice, Jean manoeuvred the machine to face the man.

“If I may introduce myself? I am Jean Descolé, a man of science with rather lofty goals.”

“Jean-Jean Descolé? But, but you’re supposed to be dead!”

Jean allowed a tiny smile to appear. The man’s horrified face was quite satisfactory. “Yes, I was. A year and a half ago, you threw me into the winter sea to drown. Yet, against all odds, I survived. And I have returned.”

The man cursed rather loudly and spoke into the radio; meanwhile, Jean configured the main system of the machine he was currently riding in, cutting it off from the main controls. He could still hear the conversation from the radio, though, and apparently, the redhead was calling for every machine they could spare. This was quickly escalating to an all-out war; Jean reached for the inbuilt microphone, hoping to evacuate as much people as he could before the rest of the armada came.

“”Everyone, please evacuate this area. This place is dangerous. I repeat, this place is dangerous.”

The clearing emptied in a minute, Grosky taking control of the situation and herding the townspeople out. The only people left were the Targent members and Layton, who was at work untying Loosha from her bonds with help from his assistant and Luke as the Barde siblings looked on. For the umpteenth time Jean cursed whatever deity that decided bringing Layton here was a good idea.

“Layton, I suggest you get out of here as soon as you can.”

The professor’s reply was lost on him as other machines began to appear. They began to come together, their form changing to resemble a bigger version of the original excavation machines—but one with half a leg missing, presumably the one he was in control. That moment, Layton freed Loosha, the animal dwarfed by the enormous size of the machine.

“Loosha, no!”

Jean was almost knocked off from his seat. Loosha had hit the machine he was controlling, and she was rearing back for another shot. Panicking, Jean did the sensible thing and retreated to the rooftop of another building, narrowly avoiding a swiping attack from the monstrosity down in the central plaza. The only upside of this situation was that both Loosha and the giant machine were unable to reach him at his current position.

“Loosha, he’s helping us! Don’t do that!”

The Barde girl screamed from her spot. It proved to be the wrong decision when the Targent agent heard her shout, directing his next shot at the marine animal. Loosha’s screech of pain reminded Jean of the scream he had heard a few days ago, and he winced. Meanwhile, Layton had evidently planned something, as he was trying to lead the children and Loosha out of the square. Time to intervene.

“Get out of the way, Descolé.”

“Why? Too scared to knock me out of my seat?” Taunting may be some of the best tactics to distract overconfident people. “Strange for a man who tried to kill me back then. Or have you since developed a heart?”

“For the love of…”

Jean moved around the plaza as Red(head) swung his movable mechanic limbs around, reducing some homes to rubble. Hoping that the houses were empty, he continued to evade the increasingly wide swings at his machine; it would not do for any casualties to happen. He couldn’t keep on being on the defensive, though, there should be some way to take the man down—

Ah. So _that_ was what Layton was planning to do, then.

“Mr Red,” he called out to the panting, enraged man, “I’m afraid you time here is up.”

“What?”

Jean jumped out of his own machine, escaping to the closest high place. Red had no idea what was about to hit him, which was a tremendous amount of reservoir water from the dam up in Highyard Hill.

Water has a cohesive structure due to the collective action of hydrogen bonds between its molecules, excellent electrical conductivity when impure, which is the natural state of the liquid, and also a density of 1g/m3. When hit with almost a metric tonne of that with full force, the pressure would be enormous. Which was what happened to Red, with the electric current coursing through the water to boot.

“AAARGH!”

The giant machine started to fall apart, dislodging the man from his seat and consecutively dumping him into the water. At least the electricity in the water seemed to be light, as Red was alive and screaming out his displeasure from the torrent of water.

After the water ran its due course and the streets emptied of the substance, Jean lightly stepped down to the ground from his perch in one of the trees, daintily avoiding puddles that formed on the cobblestones. Red was on all fours, hacking up water in the middle of the plaza, the pile of ruined machines smoking next to him. A tiny pang of sorrow struck Jean when he saw the now useless excavation machines.

“Give up, will you? There’s nothing left here that you can salvage.”

Red groaned, coughing up more water. He stumbled to his feet, drawing a pistol from his belt. Jean tensed, ready to subdue the man if needed. It turned out that he needn’t, as Red shot a single bullet into the sky. However, he then pointed it to Jean, who in turn drew his sword from his scabbard.

A helicopter appeared from nowhere mere minutes later, with a rope dangling down from its door. Red grabbed it as if it was his lifeline, and fired two shots from his place from the air. They were wild ones that Jean had no trouble dodging, but when he was able to look at the chopper again, they had disappeared. Cursing under his breath, Jean hurried to the road Layton had headed.

“Loosha, where are you going?”

“No, Loosha, no! You’ll submerge us all!”

Chaos greeted Jean at the gate of Misthallery Dam. Loosha was trying to break down the secondary floodgates while the children were stopping her as much as they could, Layton and his assistant blocking the door with their bodies. The Barde girl whipped out her flute and played a few notes on it; Loosha stilled for a moment, but soon returned to her assault on the door. Jean felt for the ancient ocarina he had brought with him. It was miraculously intact, strapped to his belt, and he stated to play the tune he had transcribed almost two years ago.

His instrument made a haunting echo that was somewhat different sound from Miss Barde’s ocarina. It had a profound effect on Loosha, who immediately ceased all movements and turned to stare at him. Several jaws dropped at that.

“What, how, how did you do that?” The Triton boy recovered first, snapping out of the initial shock.

“I’m afraid that’s confidential, young master Triton. I believe you can speak to animals; why don’t you ask Loosha here about her behaviour first?”

The boy pouted, but conceded, surprising for one who was quite determined to fight him before. “Well, okay, but she didn’t answer me the first time.”

The two conversed for a moment while Jean faced the rest of the group. A few seconds passed while everybody looked for words. An uncomfortable silence passed between them, only broken by Luke’s shouting.

“I’ve got it! Loosha says that only the flute from the ancients can properly control her like that. She says that it was part of the stories that her parents told her when she was a child, and she didn’t quite believe it at first. And there’s something under the reserve that can help Arianna, but it can only be accessed when there’s no water in the dam.”

“No water in the dam?” Emmy’s voice was incredulous. “You must—that’s impossible! How will we get all that water out of there in the first place?”

Layton gently smiled at his assistant as he answered. “There always is a way, Emmy.” He turned his attention to Jean. “Now, Mr Jean Descolé, why don’t we talk about our mysterious group and this…problem we have?”

—∮—

They had to wait a week, but finally, the town repaired the dam and slowly began to undo the damage done during the battle with Targent. Desmond stayed; he didn’t have much of a choice, not when the discovery of the Golden Garden was so close at hand. He spent most of his time with Celeste and Helen, though. While the town gossip kept him updated on the situation at the dam, he ws able to have some rest with his small family; pure bliss for seven days. On the eighth day, he headed to the rendezvous point he had agreed on the week before.

“Mr Descolé!”

Luke was the first to notice his appearance, waving to him with a grin on his face. The others were more reserved, the Barde girl in particular. Jean nodded to them and looked at Layton for updates.

“I’ve managed to convince Clark that our project is important enough to be prioritized. We’ve been emptying the dam of water these past few days, and I’m glad to say that by today we will be able to reach the bottom of the lake.”

“Excellent. And what about Loosha?”

“Well…” Layton glanced at Luke with a slight smile on his face. “I believe Luke here can explain better, since it was he who did all the talking.”

“Me?” Surprised, Luke looked up at Layton, then puffed up with a proud grin. “Of course! I, um, I talked with her, and she told us that there’s a big garden under the dam. She’s supposed to be the guardian of it, and she believes that it can cure Arianna, so that’s why she was trying to break down the dam.”

“So the Golden Garden is _literally_ a garden, then,” Jean mused, thinking about the cryptic words left by the Azran. However, his train of thought was soon interrupted by a worker who ran up to Layton.

“Sir, the lake is now clear. The mayor is waiting for you there.”

“Thank you.” Layton tipped his hat to him and turned to the others. “Shall we?”

“After you, professor,” Emmy grinned. They started to walk towards the lake, Layton and Luke at the front with Jean bringing up the rear.

“Hershel! Over here!”

Clark Triton was waiting at the edge of a golden disc with his wife. As they got closer, Jean observed the thing in the ground; it seemed to be a giant crest of some sort, decorated with round fruit drawings and misshapen birds. Luke wondered aloud on how to open it.

“Well, there’s a phrase that has been passed down through the legends if that might help.” Triton said. Jean kept his mouth shut though he knew what the mayor was going to say. At Layton’s behest, he began to recite the phrase.

“O traveler to paradise! / The winged sleepers yearn to dance. / Only by touching the four fruits / can you awaken them. / Bird of illusion, raise your beak high. / And so you shall lead our traveler / into sun-kissed paradise.”

“Touching the fruits…I assume that would translate to stepping on these things?” Layton pointed at the round things on the edge of the crest. The group crowded around the discs to have a closer look.

“Look, professor! These four have the same pattern!” Emmy was the first to notice the first clue. As she put her foot on the first one, a light came in one of the birds’ eyes. Getting the idea, Jean, Layton and Tony each stood on the rest, making all four birds’ eyes light up.

“Now what do we do?”

While the others conversed, Jean leaned in to take a look at the drawings underneath the birds. When he pushed one of them, not really expecting it to move, it shifted with a grating noise. All eyes turned on him.

“Of course! The birds move, but how could it be related to the phrase?” Layton leaned in to look at the birds, reciting the phrase under his breath. Meanwhile, Jean pushed another bird. The two birds met at the middle, showing a circle with their wings.

“Bird of illusion…this must be the answer, then.” It seemed like Layton had solved the rest of the puzzle, as he also began to move the rest of the birds. Within four turns, the birds now showed a larger one by using their wings as outlines. On cue, the entire ground rumbled as the disc began to move, sliding aside to reveal an entrance to the underground. The group gathered above gaped at the thing for a moment in silence, but Loosha’s insistent squeal brought them back to the present.

“Should we go in?” Emmy asked. Layton gestured to Loosha.

“I daresay we should, as Loosha here is quite insistent on the subject.”

With Jean and Layton leading this time, the seven people and one marine animal descended down into the cavern. The road echoed like there was a much larger chamber at the end, and the air was clean and fresh, something one would not expect from an underground tunnel that had been sealed for an indefinite amount of time. When they got to the end of the passage, Jean had to remind himself not to get too excited and start blabbering about the things he could identify.

The cavern was lit by numerous crystals reflecting the sunlight from above. They illustrated a verdant ecosystem with plants which he had never seen before, a lake with a seemingly endless bottom, and so much more breathtaking works of nature.

As Layton commented on the properties of the crystals on the ceiling, Jean thought about the flute currently in his possession. He had found it during his hunt for the clues that led him to Misthallery; by all means, the flute should also be included in the findings related to the Golden Garden. However, his cover would be bust if he tried that as Desmond. Cursing himself for the stupid blunder, he approached Layton once the professor was done talking and requested a private talk.

“I would appreciate it if you could keep my existence, and as an extension, my flute a secret,” he muttered to Layton. “I have enough on my hands right now dealing with Targent.”

Layton frowned, but agreed on his proposal. After confirming that the same would be conveyed to the others, Jean turned to leave the chamber. He was stopped by a shout, and turning back, was given a huge hug by Luke.

“What—”

“Thank you,” the boy mumbled into his cloak, “thank you for saving us and Loosha. If you hadn’t been there Loosha would’ve died from her injuries. And thank you for everything.”

Luke’s words warmed his heart, but Jean didn’t show it apart from awkwardly patting the boy’s shoulder. He soon left the cavern and returned to the marketplace, ready to go back to his beloved home.

“Everything wrapped up?”

Celeste was waiting for him with their luggage all packed, both Helen and Raymond standing behind her. ‘Jean’ took off his costume, reverting back to the loving husband and father. He kissed Celeste on her cheek and scooped Helen up into his arms.

“Yes. Let’s go home.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back! ...after a two month long hiatus. Once again, I'm terribly sorry for the update, real life has caught up with me.  
> About real life...  
> I am currently in my last year of high school. Consequently, there is an important test in November that will decide what university I will be able to go to, and I have to be in the top 0.1% of my country to achieve my goals. Therefore, and unfortunately, I will be going on a long hiatus until the end of the test. I thank you, readers, for putting up with my infrequent update schedules, and I promise that when I return, I'll do my utmost to finish this fic with a better structure and plenty of plotting.  
> Thank you for reading this chapter, and kudos/comments are always appreciated!


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